Insert cheesy metaphor here about how
I want all of you-
but you will not open yourself up enough
and I am too timid and insecure
so I idly sit here and wait for you to come to me.

Insert life advice here about how
the ocean can make waves
but it takes skill to swim
and once you learn
you will always know
how to beat high tide.

Now,
make the font pretty and add your watermark.
You don't want anyone stealing your work.
Maybe put it juxtapose style on a pretty piece of paper.
Make it so stereotypical people eat it up.

Helpful tips.
1) make sure it's generalized
2) try to put as much emotion as possible
but don't put any of yourself into it.
3) always write about love
4) make people think you've experienced a lot.
5) follow as many people as possible to get a lot of likes.
6) edit until it sounds like it's from a hallmark card.
7) take yourself out of the poem
8) make it hollow.
9) make yourself hollow
10) get nothing out of the experience but massive likes.

repeat until you feel better about yourself.
repeat until your fingers don't feel like
they will burn themselves off with lack of confidence
make your mind work in propaganda
and feed into the masses
because who needs creativity
when you have publicity right?
Likes, likes and more likes-
because that's poetry isn't it?
Not a true, genuine expression of ones self
just some **** on a page that sounds pretty
and probably rhymes.

I'm tired of cliche's
and rhyming-
tired of the disingenuous nature
of something that saved my life.
I'm not looking for relatable
I want to ******* feel something,
someone, anyone-
make me ******* feel
something.

Too many nights I lay awake,
staring at the marks upon my ceiling.
Seems these floor boards
have become headboards now
and I'm sleeping where I feel the most at home.

The victim screams again
trapped inside of these lines
everyone draws for her.
There is a box-
fit in it as much as you can
even if it's a tight squeeze.
We have no pity for you,
if it seems to be too small
just fit into it-
we all have to at some point.

This sympathy has become
a sinking ship to me
and ironically I've never seen the shore.
Drowning in the idea
salvation will reach my fingertips
and feel like grains of sand.

This sunshine I never seem to see
feels more like a dream,
a transfixed idea of melancholy
that is pressed against my hips
and I am feeling an ache in my spine.
Seems my backbone is being crushed too
I can't stand up even if I wanted to.
This box is locked and I am captive.
A prisoner of my own thoughts.

Jot this down-
remember yourself clearly
and all the scars painted upon yourself
every inch of bruising you have come across
a small reminder you have been here before.

These purple walls
have turned to a purple heart,
seems I've been drafted into war.
They drop these courtesy lies upon me
like they're bombs-
seems I am exploding again.
But if I do maybe I will get out of this box.
Maybe this ship will take me to the bottom
and I will feel the sand again.
Or maybe I'll see the sun-
when my back stands up straighter
and I can read my own words without cringing.
Maybe then I'll feel at home,
maybe then these bedsheets can replace floor boards
and the white of my ceiling won't be the only thing I see.


I tapped upon the transparency of myself
and seen a unrecognizable face staring back at me.
She nods her head and tells me it's okay
she is me, wrecked and scared-
with faith etch inside of her eyelids.
but why is she someone I don't know
an empty street corner of a place never been
wide eyed and painted on smile-
wish that I could know her.
Wish that I could be as good
at painting on this canvas
that is my body-
See I was never really good at art.

I imagine murals painted on this ceiling-
and my back hurts from laying here for so long
I hope to see the backs of my eyelids soon
because black would be better than nothing-
black would be better than transfixion
until delusion-
white canvas, white pills, white ceiling-
how can anyone love anything so void of color.

I haven't wrote a poem
since I could inscribe your name
inside of the stone cold outline of my cerebellum.
My movements are etched inside these lines,
but it seems you write too much in cursive
which consists of you
interweaving your thoughts around mine.
I believe these movements are meek-
that these hands can only write for so long
before they feel as if they have said too much.
Or too much of the same thing-
I cannot wrap this head around your literature
how you walk and the way you switch pages in an instant-
I didn't even get to read you.
But this comprehension is merely subjective
when it comes to your eyes under these sheets
and these hands all over your brain
trying to rack it of what is left of us.
You speak in tongues
and run in and out of me-
but somehow I still can't hear you.
Just a soft faint whisper
behind these outlines and inside of these four walls.
You encompass me
but it seems you still haven't a clue where you're going.
Time and time again
I try to rewind these words
and read another page of your insides
only to have it ripped away from these fingers.
Now all you do is collect dust
building up these leftover skin cells
because you would rather shed yourself thin
than open up.

I haven't written a poem such as this-
since your words ripped me in two
and I had to rebind this spine of mine.
Seems I am a renewed version of myself
and still a used copy all in the same two hands.
There isn't a page missing here
but somehow they are all defiled and bent
backwards they seem, lacking uniformity
just read me-
because I need you to see me
because I need you to let me see you.

I have grown too attached again
stuck inside of this dark place
I cannot seem to rid of-
it provides too much comfort for my insides.
My head repeats the devastation-
so I cling to the only thing I seem to know
the only thing that can help me breath.

I'm asleep-
but it seems these dreams get the best of me again
so I'm locked inside of this bed
it has me like a cage
and it seems I am drowning in bed sheets,
falling in love with this comfort zone
and hating what's outside of it.

Do not make me move-
I like it here too much.
It holds every inch of me
and keeps all my secrets safe.
It promises me it will be here
when I need it and it never lets me down.
I weep inside my pillow
and my insides are found here again.

Waking up to a new day
just wishing I didn't have to leave.
These bedsheets tangle me
and make promises always kept.
and I was never a promise that's been kept.

I can't compete anymore-
a picture was painted at birth
and it doesn't reflect who I am on the inside.
I try to shy away from the insecurity
but the shadow creeps up from below my gut-
reminds me I am no longer worthy
convinces me I am nothing.

Seem you are a Monet,
and I am anonymous
thinking in colors
and painting in words-
but you are the physical manifestation
of the thoughts in which encompass my mind.
My outlook is meek again,
it seems I am maureen
because of her.

I try not to make myself
so black and white
and green all over
but envy has become of me.
Breaking away at the seems of beauty
and making a mockery of my outsides.
But the dream is real
and it seems every male knows it too.

Just a shadow to a city street,
a raindrop to a growing garden-
the colors surround her
and I'm stuck in black and white.

Metaphors make more sense
to me then anything else ever has,
you can speak to me in clarity
but I'll still question what it means.

These friends I have
they brighten me
but I'm still so black and white,
a negative of a positive picture
their appearance trumps my attempts
and they think in zest and breathe inside life.

The beauty that behold of them
triumphs over mine-
seems I love to surround myself
with the things that make me smile
even when I'm still black and white
they are the red and gold-
they are the much needed rainbow
after the hectic rainstorm.

The fear I feel is far from here
and these hands hold close to nothing.
Yours are wrapped around my throat
so I can't leave even if I wanted to.

I think in metaphors
and write my way through cursive
I can't make out what's in front of me
too many crossed lines, and not enough clarity.

Don't teach me what it's like to feel pain
and then put me in a situation to leave you-
to inflict you with the hurt you've taught me.
My inside are too lined with gold
to turn yours into dirt again-
to sell this tragedy for something worthy.

I can't let go of this anchor
because I don't want to be held down.
Fixated in one place
so you wrap it around my throat instead
and drop it where we're planted.
This way I can never leave-
this way I can never breathe.

You push me in and pull me out-
I will never make sense of what remains.
The anger in your bones reminds me not to be.
The look inside your eyes
while your hands are wrapped around my throat
makes me remember why I'm still alive
but makes me wish I wasn't.

You make me feel dead inside again.
I'm choking on these words I wish to say
and you wouldn't let go
long enough for me to speak them anyway.
I want what has been in front of me all along
you blinded the importance of a being
and now I'm left with just fog.

I never thought you would lead me wrong
and I am wrapped up in emotions too much
to bleed myself dry of thoughtlessness.
This mess has turned into chaos
and I continue drowning.
Deeper until this anchor
cuts away my neck
and chokes me of any hope I have left.

Cut the chains
and break me free-
this sinking ship can't see the horizon anymore
I'm not sure there's life left outside these trouble waters.
Wishing I could breathe again
please just let me breathe again.


love inside of trouble waters,
these waves won't stop crashing against this sinking ship.
seems I'm destined to drown again-
I was never one to be a captain.

sticks and stones can break your bones
and words always mislead.
these sticks I stick into my skin
never seem to bleed.
my mind is sick
these hands are tied.
so I can't put on my smile.
tired is the way I've been
and something in me is broken.
I tried to fix what's in my head
but it seems it's working against me again.
How can you fix this mind so fragile
if this mind is all you have to claim.
You can fix a birds broken wings
but he'll never fly the same.

I feel sick inside-
the days feel low and the weather is bad.
Haven't seen the sun for days
and I'm hanging on messages that never come.
This buzz inside of my chest
feels like I just drank a gallon of pure sugar
and I can't stop my skin from crawling.

worse case scenarios repeat in my mind
like a maroon 5 song on the radio,
painfully they never end.

The sun is out again.
I have placed both hands on the steering wheel
and I'm driving fast on the highway.
I see a cop and my heart races,
makes me feel like I did yesterday.
So I start to feel like yesterday.
My favorite song comes on-
reminds me today is not how it was before.

Hands shaking-
blood is dripping
and I wonder why no one loves me.

It's morning again-
I spend this one hating who I was the day before.
But stay up until 4:30 am because I can't sleep.
Enthralled in the idea I'm the funniest person in the world.
Things don't feel so bad here, in this moment.

But the day comes after-
only got a couple hours of sleep
and now I am scratching at my skin.
My boyfriend hasn't texted me back in two hours
must mean I did something wrong.
Must mean he doesn't love me anymore.
Must mean he's thinking of someone else.
Breakdown.
Multiple Texts.
a fight that makes me feel dead and alive
simultaneously.
I'm emotionally abusive.
But only because my mind is,
I don't want to be.

These words are always punches-
to myself and the ones I love
I'm so used to being broken down.
So guilt trips are the only survival tactics I know.

I promise I'll be better baby.

Morning-
I slept well last night,
my heart feels filled with love
and admiration for everyone around me.
I spent $200 on clothes at the mall.
Things feel good.
My desire for sexuality grows stronger,
and I want to be tamed.
His arms gather around my waist
and kisses are placed upon my neck.
I feel the love inside of my bones.
Wrong hand placement-
my mind goes backwards
dark room, hands- hands and hands.
I smell it, that day.
Small child again.
I wince. Crying again.
He holds me in his arms, makes me feel okay.
I think about it for a week straight after that.
Not wanting anything to do with love making
or any of the sort.
Emotions aren't too good for me as of late.

I can't stop writing-
so many things I want to say
but never knowing how to say them.
Typical ******* cliche.
I stand in front of an audience.
My hands shake
but no nerves ever feel as bad
as the ones my mind likes to give me
on random, every other day.
This is where I feel okay.

Sticks and stones will break my bones
because they have before.
Words repeat
and these memories
will always be inside me.
***** floors and Dusty rooms
these hands they seem to stain me-
I will not fall victim to
this chemically imbalanced insanity.