I sacrificed to the
constant back and forth,
to the anxiety, and the worries,
and the last barrier wall.

I shielded myself with
whatever I found I might have.
I let the darkness take its toll,
and gave up everything
I had wanted; I gave it all.

I was beaten by the ticking,
and the slowly beating pulse,
that drove me, with my madness,
to my final batting call.

When the worries set me motionless,
and I felt the boil in my veins,
like the beating in each of my wrists.
I was lost to the course of the ocean,
and the tears, and the pain,
but no wish.

Then, like a steady candle,
that I hadn't seen before.
Like a tiny shattering whisper,
that, I hadn't heard at all.

The light came in a second,
when I couldn't hear it's noise.
It came out of nowhere, like,
a shooting star, a meteor,
a call.

In time I'm finally seeing,
these things I can't handle on my own.
I was a martyr to the shaking,
I was afraid of the dark I had bought.
I was scared of what was out of control,
and I knew that it'd take it's toll.

I'm finding that, in the darkness,
when the tapping comes around,
like when the music comes to a holt,
and the sudden feeling beats me down.

And when the Sun decides to fall down,
and leave me out in the dark, in the cold,
I've realized that it isn't half as bad if
I have a hand to hold.

The veins in my wrists are
being removed one by one.
I am relieving myself of the pressure,
and giving myself all my doubt.

I've drained myself of all my feelings,
because I could not handle them as well
as I should.
And I disdain the feelings I get in my fingertips,
then I crave the dissatisfaction that attaches itself
to me.

And you.

And you are weeping like a person of stone,
and you are making waves with the pressure
and the discontent that surrounds you on and ordinary basis.

And I.
I am a mess that even you cannot figure out,
nor piece together to make sense of anything.
While I let you down, and you fall because I am not
strong enough to hold both of us up.
I let myself fall so often that it makes it more difficult
to lift you from such a crater.

So I.
I hate myself every time I attempt to make things
right again,
by placing banner outside my door frames, and,
pretending like it's all okay again. Because I know its not.

And that mockingbird does not sing anymore,
and we say we are trying but I think we've both given up.
Because we seem happy in the company of unhappiness,
but when we are in our own solitude cell of our misery
we can no longer sustain ourselves.

So I am far too weak to make things right,
or cure things, or you.
Or fix things, like you.
I am not the savior of this story,
nor am I the villain.
I try to be the hero but I fail at that
as well.

And I.
I am sorry that I cannot be a statue for you.
Or a tower of arms that can serve as your protection.
Because I am weak, and I am wrong, and I have
sacrificed myself to all of my insecurities and
I have let you down in the process.

A pretty little photo frame,
dusted every day.
The pretty little picture frame,
on the mantle you will stay.
A pretty little something,
to brighten up my day.
Oh, but, only when I say.

That pretty little frame,
but the photo seems so faded.
It's black and grey and worn,
but don't bother to repair it,
don't dare be that warm.

Ignore that little photograph,
it's not as pretty as it once was.
Wait til need replaces it,
this has never been its home.

That pretty little photo frame,
is broken by the guidance.
That pretty little picture frame,
has fallen and grown dark.
That pretty little something,
is not pretty anymore.
Because, alas, I have decided,
it is not my favorite anymore.

He stands beside my door at night,
twisted and hunched in the dark.
A smile that embodies fright,
and curls with the madness he makes.

He carves his words into my skin,
to assure I won't forget them.
Then, he laces daffodils and venom to my chest;
my favorite adversary has horrid taste.

I can only hear the beat, a steady ticking pace,
I couldn't even face my fears, you see,
for my own worst enemy has no face.

My chest is weighing heavy,
it holds my heart of stone.
My soul is falling weary,
I couldn't do it alone.

Heavy breathes, and painful sweats,
how could this happen to me?
Well, while he's here I see,
meet my horrifying friend,
anxiety.

He was the shadow of a lonely man,
struck by fire, and sparks, and the shock
of a long lost ghost, of,
the girl he had loved.

He lost his touch as he had fallen,
and had swore he was tall with
the faults of his own, but,
he lost like a petal
left on it's own,
in the fall of his winter;
he never did bloom.

He left his beloved in
the scent of his clothes,
when she faded with dismay,
and he forged her signature
like the deed to his soul.

He built her a home,
a set of bones, like a chamber,
in his only chamber.

Beneath his metal chest,
of a soldier who had lost,
and his love in his heart,
caged in like a menegerie.

There, she was safe,
and she was kept tight.
A little memento,
that she couldn't fight.

A lock and a key to keep
her in place.
She was locked in his heart,
and she couldn't escape.

But, alas, she grew restless,
and knew she must go.
But he kept her in place,
in his chamber, her home.

I am not what I wanted to be.
I am not water, or wind, or free.
I cannot even pretend that I am,
because I am far too distanced from myself.

I did not become who I want to be.
I leave sticky notes upon every square inch
of my home to remind me of things that
probably aren't very important.

I am not free, or floating,
or empty of worries or darkness.
Perhaps I've lost each sense of direction,
and suddenly sold myself to a manual.

Suddenly, your favorite color isn't very
lovely anymore, and the clock you carry
in your pocket isn't correct anymore.

Because you first ignored your woes,
because 'an apple a day keeps the doctor away.'
But soon enough those woes consume you,
and you cannot ease them away anymore.

Your favorite place becomes infested,
and soon the air is too impure
because of some fallacy you created
that told you that it was.

Soon you cannot check the time anymore
because no matter which way the hands point,
that is not the time operating inside you, and,
the past, and the future eat you alive so much
that you cannot focus on the present.

The past weighs heavy on your shoulders,
and pushes you lower and lower, but,
the future inflates in your stomach and,
puffs you bigger and bigger.

Somehow I might pop like a stuffed up balloon
because even rubber or plastic cannot resist
such pressure.

He left coffee stains on my pillowcase,
and saltwater by the counter.
Blood from his knuckles on the doorknob,
and then the stale of his breath in my hair.

I sprayed his car with my perfume,
before he left that day, so soon.
He hated goodbyes, so he never said them,
instead, see you later, would bottom his letters.

I lured a man to meet him,
at the corner of Webb and Decree.
I bet his eyes rolled back without laughter,
and his heart hit a beat that's too slow.

I pulled threads out of his sweater,
smiled, and said he'd be mine forever.
But he hates goodbyes, so he'd never say it,
but I'd hug him tight like I wouldn't forget him.

How does it feel,
to mix blood with metal?
or taste glass, or paint,
or miss the pedal?

I heard his mumbling in my head,
like the marks he made,
and the words he bled.

His cologne is still in my kitchen,
but his is gone, and faded quickly.
I forgot how he tapped the counter,
and wrote  a note with an ink-less marker.

I played his favorite song at dawn,
when I would finally admit there was,
something wrong.

I waited for a chime or ring,
I hoped for a little nothing.
But air had turned to something,
and it was a mistake.

I met with a box that was faded black,
with a wounding smile,
and a glass choir in the back.

I looked upon my marionette,
in his faded tux his brother wouldn't get.
In the tie I bought when he was late,
and the watch he wore on our very first date.

The flowers in his mother's favorite color,
but they didn't match his eyes.
I could hardly see their pigment,
except in my head;
I wanted the real ones instead.

The colors wouldn't wander,
or change when he was sad.
He was merged with metal,
but no scars upon his lip.

I remember silver walks,
when he told me he could hardly talk.
He said things he's never say,
and prayed I wouldn't go away.

I lost him to a moment;
a little piece of time.
A too fast, too slow,
wrong place, wrong time.

He said he had me like the rain;
I was cold, and sharp, and I always slipped away.
I never intended to slip through your fingertips,
though I often find myself doing so.

I am not hard to hold onto,
but I am simply hard to hold.
My skin is lined with thorns,
but I am not as pretty as a rose.

His words felt like velvet
as he told me why he only half smiled.
I hardly paid attention, but,
I loved it when I did.

He was like a fire;
he was fascinating until
you gave him half a touch.
He burned.

I laced threads that were,
damp with his breath
as I stitched up the holes in his shoes.

His laugh was worn and stale,
as he leaned back in his chair.
His shoes were barely patched,
and his eyes were still dark and black.

I didn't think his darkness,
would take a stable home.
I hoped that all his horrors
would eventually leave him alone.

He had splinters in his ribcage,
and trying lines on his spine.
His body bends as he rolls over,
he never sleeps at night.

His alarm is always calling,
like his mother by the stairs.
His sister's always falling,
for the boys with metal on their lips,
a little piece of him he'd wish he could forget.

His skin is worn like parchment,
as he wishes away what he is.
I wish he'd never change himself,
but hes the only one who did.

I traced his skin in circles,
and left salt on his wrists.
This part of him couldn't be,
he didn't want any of this.

The slender of his jaw was cracked,
and his fingertips were crooked.
None of this had hardly mattered
when he was soft and warm and less rugged.

I left him wrapped in leather,
on his bed, alone in the dark.
I couldn't prevent his horridness,
from claiming himself as it's own.

He said I was the Sun;
I was warm and bright,
and brought new life.
I hoped I brought him back.

But his eyes had sunk like anchors,
and his lips were small and numb.
And when he laughed the stale was gone,
and breath was left instead.

I watched him fade like a photograph,
and I washed away the stains.
But, alas, I couldn't help him;
I couldn't take away the pain.

The tiles are much colder when
you are cemented into their core.
When nothing can erase it, and,
you can't get off the floor.

Settle into darkness,
my name without a face.
Because something tells me honestly,
there's a virtue in need a replace.

And I'm twisting like a knife,
but the only thing that's stings me is
my heart, and
I never knew I had one,
and now I wish I never did.

I feel it like a poison but
its only my imagination
because every time I cry,
it isnt killing me but I hope
you know it feels like it.

And I cannot stop my sobbing
because I am not as strong as
I think I am, and I am not
as emotionless as everyone
says that I am.

Because when I weep at 2 am
I know I am real, and I know
that I can feel,
and when you leave I feel a
void that only hits me and makes
me falter even more than I have
the night before,
and it hurts me with a greater

pain than one could even imagine.

and there is nothing I could do
after that because then
i am broken
and i am lost
and i am gone forever.

Cradled in the darkness,
but a name without a face.
Something soft, and silver,
with no need to be replaced.

I felt it, like a warmness,
or a chilling of the spine.
That something soft and silver,
might settle in, and be mine.

Then eyes just like a jungle,
that I couldnt find myself in,
buried my heart like a capsule,
a pretty, ultimate, sin.

A perfect small exchange,
between the most glistening of eyes,
or the small twitches of a smiling smirk,
that glitches out the lies.

Translated like a message,
no need to say nor write.
A feeling of belonging,
a feeling that it might.

I felt it in a sudden, and,
in smaller bursts since then.
Of love that seemed irreplaceable,
that I couldn't even sense.

So I caught it like a petal,
or saw it like a star.
This perfect little feeling,
i always feel where
you are.

I lost myself in the stories in the newspapers,
and the coffee he poured me because he thought
I needed something,
but I did not order a thing.

I lost myself in the fuschia flower in her hair,
over her left ear, but,
my left ear didnt have a flower, and,
come to think of it, it probably never would.

I drank my coffee, black, because I didn't know any better,
and watched the lovers fight over buttered crossiants and
cinammon lattes with whipped cream and chocolate syrup.

My knuckles felt like typewriters, but,
for once in my life I wasn't writing.
I was hardly thinking,
I was hardly speaking even.

I lost myself in the low music and guitar
coming from inside the cafe
because, unlike me, it was beautiful
and soft, and lovely.

He poured me more coffee even though
I didnt want it, and,
gave me a crossiant, "on the house."

Who would think to give,
an observer something lovely?
But I had accepted it because
mother always said
"be kind."

I lost myself in silver eyes,
or, were they golden?
I hardly remember but I lost
myself in them.
And I didn't know why.

I fell in love at a coffee shop
where, I counted change,
like quarters and dimes and
anything to give him something
worth keeping.

I fell in at a coffee shop because
life was beautiful and people didn't
know me here at all so,
they couldn't follow me home.

I fell in love with
iced coffee in the winter time,
and with words said at the
wrong moment.

I fell in love with,
the way you said my name,
and the way you said goodbyes
were your least favorite,
and you hated every one.

I fell in love with,
poems written on cafe napkins,
and the drawings you left
with my things.

My favorites were never
****** knuckles, or,
leaving myself in a polaroid.

I never thought I'd buy in,
to iced coffee and
rain on Sunday mornings.
Or lose myself in rock n' roll,
and twist my wrist to hold your hand.

I fell in love with the aura
of my favorite amber eyes.
I fell for the crooked grin
of a faceless painting,
and the developing
of the negatives.

I fell in love with stormy weather,
and movies at 2am.
I fell in love with
the jokes we made, and,
the songs we'd sing.

But, if he asked me,
I wouldn't say a thing.

At dawn I found a hollow girl,
fair, with metal in her veins.
She spoke of narrow hallways,
with dew upon the doors.
She warned of fading quickly,
        her soul poured upon the floor.

She tugged and knotted at her hair,
as she spoke of horrorful woes.
She huffed, and sighed; it wasn't fair.
Then she felt cold water on her toes.

The shocking sting stunned her at first,
yet the needles slowly rised.
She hoped it wouldn't be the worst,
but still the needles rised.

They figured they couldn't mend her,
leave her broken on the floor.
There was nothing they could do
before she'd pass through that door.

"What else?" they'd ask the actors,
"What speech could we write next?"
They'd give her a special one
and for this she'll be blessed.

As they molded plaster
and preened her oh so nice.
They painted her a smile,
and emerged her into ice.

Words like these define me,
when I haven't got a name.
Disaster hits me silently,
it's such a clever little game.

I pretend I don't see reasons,
I neglect them, like all of my feelings.
Then I bury my words with my ashes,
dirt gets kicked on them as each person passes.

Don't mistake my trophy, for
some silly piece of art.
It's just a little delicate,
of stone, or, you might call it,
my heart.

The scars on my knuckles turn silver,
when I lie through the gaps in my teeth.
My eyes turn to that of a sinner,
when I find there's a secret to keep.

The twine over wrists is pathetic,
while a Raven just pecks at my feet.
I can't fathom that you'd think your clever,
while I sit here, and "praise" you, forever.

My eyes didn't look green anymore.

You played that song over and over,
til those pretty words meant nothing.
I didn't notice: I sang along too often.

Your smile was toothy,
but I didn't say anything.
"Green isn't my favorite color."

My lips were painted pink,
but I wished they were purple.
That's when I remembered that
you didn't care.

You tore the locket off my neck.
"Say something, just speak."
But you won't like it,
green isn't your favorite color.

You don't remember me,
my name was crossed away.
You ripped my picture up.
You don't make me smile anymore,
anyway.

I forgot what green looked like.
My eyes were bright but I was not.
What does green look like?

I sang those songs you hated,
those words became my favorites.
I searched oceans, maybe, but
I could be lying.

My lockets broken but I don't care,
that was not love.
My favorite color was softer,
just like my own, old, sweaters.

My golden hair is better.
You don't smile toothy anymore.
Thats what happens when light leaves,
but,
my eyes are green again.

He'd scratch words on metal,
if it held a lot of promises.
He'd hardly know the difference,
between the steel or the
change in his pockets.

There's rubber on the concrete,
along with several words.
The ones that mean the most to me,
are covered up with dirt.

I don't think he notices,
the worn out of his shoes,
or the way his faces moves when he laughs,
or the colors of the moon.

He paints colors on my arm,
while we're sitting in his car.
I wish I could do the same for him;
I'd hardly know where to start.

I could paint another portrait,
or draw another map.
It would probably prove useless,
but he wouldn't mention that.

He still has his daffodils.
I wear mine in my hair.
His are on his dashboard,
but no one sees them there.

I think he stirs daydreams,
into his coffee every morning.
And leaves a little  post-it note,
alone and by the stairs.
He doesn't think it matters,
he'll always leave them there.

He isn't much for paper,
just hum another tune.
Don't forget to hide the things,
that'll make the water blue.

Somehow lost in denim,
is a name, but not a face.
A beautiful disaster,
that cannot be replaced.

I lost all my adjectives,
I'll need to make my own.
To prove a little something,
how special you don't know you are.

He doesn't lace his sneakers,
but he might always have a map;
to set little guidelines, that,
he'll probably forget.

I always listen to his stories,
and to the way he speaks.
He doesn't understand why,
I do the things I do,
but that is nothing different,
and perhaps I always knew.

He handed me a picture frame,
while I painted him a Polaroid.
That didn't make sense at the time,
but now it'll clear up just fine.

I can't read the colored words,
I only see whats written dark.
He holds a breaking pen,
but hardly knows what lies inside.

Despite all the photographs,
or the hairline fractures in stain glass,
the colors resonate with me,
while the darkness flees my mind.

I'd hate to crack my pedestal,
or ruin a portrait painted pink,
the times I can't control,
might overwhelm and make me fall.

I'll leave stars and words on paper,
and tack them upon his door.
To almost prove to him,
that there's so much more.

He can't count constellations,
and he doesn't care for thorns.
He'll only deal with logic,
or the matters on his hands.

Stitched upon old denim,
is the story of us all.
He would hardly ever know it,
but his will never fall.

He told me I was beautiful
on a Sunday, and I laughed.
He said he didn't understand,
why I couldn't take a compliment,
or why I couldn't hold his hand.

"I can't fall in love with you,
no I could never do that. Oh,
why not I bet you'd ask,
I simply cannot."

My friends told me I was crazy.
"Your head can't be on straight."
They couldn't understand why,
I couldn't just give in, or
admit there's something there.

"I can't fall in love with him.
What can't you understand?
Stories don't always end like that,
and thats something that I can't pretend."

I found myself in clutter,
with words upon my back.
I couldn't change my mind again,
I couldn't find my way.

I can't fall in love with you,
no I could never do that.
Oh don't think that I am cruel,
or stone, or emotionless.
I can't fall in love with you,
and that's a simple fact.

He told me that he loved me,
on Saturday in the dark.
I told him he was crazy,
that he had been from the start.

I can't say there's a place for him,
buried in my heart.
But I can't fall in love with him,
please, don't let me do that.

I might be giving up, you see,
it's hard to not fall back.
How could I fall in love with you?
How could I do that?

Etched in floor boards,
underneath the **** rug
were my initials before they
changed.

Carved into my forearm
was my favorite date,
when I had changed and
become a better person,
but the scar healed over.

I have lost the original sting,
the pain I had given myself
to make me feel again.
And I shielded it with bandages
and ugly rugs that hid my pain
and my floor. My low points.

I am a curve ball without a
place to land,
and though I hate it,
it is starting to feel like
home.

I trapped my soul in a music box.
The pearls around my neck sit upon
an empty set of hollow bones that
creak whenever you hold me.

I'm not beautiful.
The pale and curve of my skin doesn't
radiate with sunlight and bring out the
green in my eyes or the flowers in my hair.
I am the negative of a photograph you'll never take:
I am the mistake.

The blood pooling around my finger nails,
the heaviness of my chest every night, the
same time it came yesterday.
I am a prisoner to a mind that never ceases movement;
I am a consistent mess you'll never hold.

My soul sits in that music box,
buried beneath boxes of old magazines,
bags of couture, and the crates of
everything you prefer over me.

Do not fear the bruises on my fingertips
I promise I will hold you gently, and,
cradle you in my arms.

Please don't worry for my temper,
I will control it all I can.
I do not want you to fear me;
I promise, I'm not that bad.

Don't fear my little problems,
I know I judge too much.
Don't let these little things
bother you, and make you go away.

Don't think about my insecurities,
or my fear to touch and to love,
don't worry about those things at all,
I'll try and push you above.

Don't be afraid of my madness,
I promise it only hurts me.
I will never let my sanities,
affect how you might be.

Please, don't fear the scratches on my wrists,
or the scars along my hips.
I wasn't built for stability,
but I'm finding that I, can be.

Don't worry about all these things,
don't fear what might just be,
Please just ignore all of my tendencies,
and just look to love me.

My biggest mistake was
recording the noises only I heard.
I knew they weren't real;
I wasn't hearing them correctly.

My biggest mistake was
pretending I was alright when I wasnt.
People began to blur over my feelings,
as if always being 'alright' meant I did not have any.

My biggest mistake was
thinking, even for a moment, that I could.
That I could fathom any bit of the situation,
and spit it out so it made sense.

My biggest mistake was
believing that I had even
made a mistake in the first place.

She only cares for lilacs.
Her favorite color's black.
She lives within a snowglobe,
and never leaves her track.

She wears him like a necklace,
or keeps him in a box.
She's so afraid of losing him;
just love and forget-me-nots.

Polish her with madness,
and paint her insanity clean.
She's honestly not as crazy as,
they'll all like to make her seem.

She only sleeps on rainy days,
only because she's afraid.
He doesn't see the beauty,
and hates being awake at 3am.

The phone is always ringing,
like the clock upon the wall.
Indie music resonates,
echoing down the hall.

She hides away alone,
with a cigarette in her hand.
The ledge of the tub is occupied;
she sits, and waits, and time goes by.

Her life is just a puzzle,
but she doesn't have a clue.
She complicates the simple things,
and makes happiness run blue.

He doesn't mind her tendencies;
he knows she's a little strange.
She wears him like a medal,
like her little trophy man.
But he knows she needs him,
he's the only sane thing he has.

It took more than a list of reasons,
and an empty bottle of wine to convince me.
I am worth what I have to offer,
and what I have to offer is slim.

I have designated the role of Savior,
to myself, the one who has always fallen.
Especially when mirrors are shattering,
and pencils are breaking,
all because I cannot handle my emotions.

I am weaker than I imagine and
I am stronger than I tell my friends.
I have lost the ability to portray myself
as a fighter should.

My list of reasons is running long,
as to how pathetic and self-loathing
I have come to be.

I took off my party dress.
And wiped my lipstick clean.
My cheeks were stained with oil pens,
and my knees were bent and unseen.

I found fault in my lashes,
as I took off my silly facade.
I took pride in all of my ashes,
but swallowed my fear once I pushed them aside.

My knuckles were scarred with pin holes,
and my stomach was lined with regret.
My eyes were masked with the misery,
and the feeling was one I couldn't forget.

My heels were meant for decieving,
but my fingers were laced with the truth.
I couldn't capture the honesty,
so it fell from my wrists with a thud.

I cried when I heard the curtain,
shatter and show me on stage.
A wounded girl with no armor or metal,
just chiffon and an ugly bouquet.

Leave me to shackle my madness,
to the post at the foot of my bed.
Then forget the grey of my skin,
and make it as if I had never been.

I lost all my silver in ruins,
then lost my sane and my whim.
Along with the breeze, but no wind,
I was rejected, with no where to begin.

I have lost sight of you,
Of myself, probably in the process.
I have traveled through caves,
Carved my way through valleys,
Carried myself through currents with
Hope that seeing your face will bring me back.
You didn’t bring me back.
When I reached for my hand you let me go.
“I gave that to you years ago. How could I again?”
I spit the word “love” and “attachment,”
Thinking they mean the same thing.
I spit the word “hate,” because
That's the synonym you use for my name.
What color are my eyes?
Do you remember- I forgot.
You let me drown; you gave her your hand.
“I have that connection with her, not you.
I gave you all I could, how could I again?”
Her eyes must be a better color than mine.
She tried to kick dust in my face;
She couldn’t reach me.
I was underneath the water,
Choking on words like “love.”
You didn’t say goodbye, but
I guess you left me there to die.
She grabbed your hand before anyone else could.
She wore the necklace that made you hers.
She won the poison this time.
I won’t mumble how you crumble,
She can figure it out on her own.
So, when you let go of her hand,
She can’t blame me, or utter my name.
Because she watched you bury me faster than
The storm that brought me in.

I took my favorite song and
trapped it in a music box.
With painted lines, and straining
locks, I know it'll never go.

I left my favorite song in the
music box,
it was almost like I didn't hear it,
like it slowly began to hide itself.

I was afraid to open my music box,
the tune might just float away.
But if I kept my song in it's music box,
it might just stop playing anyway.

My favorite song was in my music box,
where I knew I kept it safe,
but my song was growing weaker
and it wouldn't play the same.

I was afraid to open the painted box,
and unleash my favorite melody.
I was afraid my little tune might
seek to float away from me.

I have a weakness I am aware of,
but I cannot fathom how to fix it.
I try to prize this like a trophy but
I end up locking my song away.

I finally opened my music box,
and broke the lock in half.
I was afraid my melody,
might flee away from me
but
I tried to assure the trust that
my song might always play
for me.

I've begun to fear the water,
and the ground I've learned to stand on.
The shapeless forms that I can't hold,
are beginning to pull me down.

I could sink, nonetheless,
or trip on my way.
The clouds have rolled in,
and I fear they might stay.

My boat has lost it's dock,
and my feet have lost their place.
My mind has lost it's reason, and,
my enemy has no face.

The lightning even scares my shadow
back into it's hiding place, while the thunder
makes me shield my eyes.

I'm not much for storms;
I'm not much for anything.
I've found that every day
I quake, and my legs buckle
beneath me.

I'm afraid I can't take it,
and I'm up against a wall.
I don't want it to consume me;
I don't want to fall.

Because,
I can't walk on water,
or find a place for my feet.
I can barely face the day,
without falling on my face.

A hand to hold won't guide me,
and a comfort won't calm me.
Sleep just makes me more drowsy,
and being awake only intensifies
my fear.

I'm not a painting,
you can't frame me.
I'm not a statue,
you cant leave me be.

Don't string me like a row of lights,
I'm not made for that.
Don't leave me like a half read book,
only reading me when you want me.

I'm not a bec and call,
and if you thought I'd be like that,
you never really knew me at all.

I shut the lights and locked the doors,
don't bother knocking, I'm not home.
And even if I am, I won't be naiive
enough to open up the door again.

I'm scared, and I'm fragile,
so I'll probably never get better.
I hope it resonates in you;
that you've ruined me forever.

I've built the walls that held me,
and helped me fall apart.
And even when I try and knock them down,
I'm only breaking my own heart.

It's something I'll have to live with.
It's like a rock in my shoe.
I can't shake it off,
and it'll always be there.

I've been
saddled with a loneliness,
that only clarity controls.
With a subtly of insanity,
where a sane man takes his tolls.
Because someone like a jester,
with no royal, hateful, crown
has pinned me with a series of
unspeakable, lazy, downs.
If someone has ever viewed me,
they might laugh and smirk in my face,
because someone, like that jester,
has controlled me with their fate.
I didn't try to make a duty,
of the things I couldn't do,
when fear was binding me at my wrists,
and telling me that I wasn't there.
But the loneliness came crawling,
and it settled upon my back,
because for some reason that
horrible jester,
deems it funny to throw me
off my track.

I find myself in mirrors

but I crack each one I see.

I cannot stand the sight of me

especially when I am breaking at

my seams.

Do not mistake my vulnerability for

my weakness, or my valleys

because I swear that it is not.

I am just as fragile as I was yesterday.

And I suppose like fallen soldiers,

with every if and or but.

But i cannot dig myself out of my coffin

because they have already poured the dirt

and I am stuck.

But you trapped me like a victim.

I reached for you  with my hands.

but you shuddered and ignored me

and left me in my place

where I could not escape from,

and could not keep my face.