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.

5 months ago
I discovered I had cptsd-
I have a new name to claim and to become accustomed to.

my mind is wired weird now.
and I can't blame these happenings
on chemical imbalance anymore

this true has held my throat shut.

Everything I knew about myself vanished,
but everything I knew about myself now made sense.

Every step forward was inside of quick sand.
Every step out of it was dragging around *****.

My mind was sheet white and clean slate.

These triggers always align my eye sight
even words can engrave themselves
inside of my head-space.

I am everywhere at once.

Here's the thing,
my prefrontal cortex is stunted
and it's all my childhood's fault.
I would hold resentment or place the blame
on my alcoholic father, or on my abuser-
but I don't have the time or the patience
to entertain anger.
So instead I am sad.

Grudges have been my calling card
since birth and I'm tired
of wearing them like a scarlet letter.

A giant red stain, but in my eyes
and on my face,
everyone knows I am damaged
everyone knows I am deranged.

I walk on spiders
trying not to squish them
knowing **** well,
they could **** me if they wanted.

I am scared of routine,
and repetition
even though my disorder
longs for it.

Makes it impossible
for me to live comfortably.
Because I want consistency
and when I get it
my other disorder takes over.

It's like a power struggle
between my mental illnesses-
and my mind is an episode
of celebrity death match
no one really wins,
we all just end up ******
and broken
and a joke.

Inconsistency
is like my consistency.

When things
smooth out
like cream cheese
on my favorite bagel-
I'm like **** this is good.

Then I start to worry
about when the bagel
will be come stale
or moldy-
and I don't wanna buy new ones
I like the ones I have ya know?

And the concern takes me over-
no longer even wanting to eat the bagels
because I'm scared they've already molded
even though they probably haven't
even though they're my favorite..

Should I be more poetical about this?
Should I outline this in a different
tone and texture to make
it sound like
I'm something other than I am.

I'm tired of doing all of that-
and I'm tired of using the word I
in all of my ******* poetry.

But it's always about me.
I am a self-involved writer
only writing from my experience
so why wouldn't it be filled
with every single part of me?

Love is something I have never been good at,
especially when it comes to myself.

Someone else tries
and all it does it make me cringe
and I wait for it get moldy and stale -
I'm not actually still talking about the bagel anymore
am I?

Am I?
Am I everything that I say am?
or am I just biting off an Eminem line.
Oh my god I've turned into
the manifestation of Jay-Z
overrated and boring
and attempting to stay relevant
via my love life.

I wish things wouldn't change,
I wish routine stayed routine
and things didn't get so complacent.
The spark always dies in the end
and I always end up becoming
a different version of myself
as soon as I fall in love.

I guess I'm always too scared
too reliant
and too worried no one will want me
when they see the real me.

But in this current scenario
I was 100% the real me first
and then we fell in love
and now I'm at like 75% and free falling.

All because I miss how things were
when friendship made us talk everyday
and we spent a good amount of time apart
so we actually had things to talk about
when we were together.
Now it's all the same again
and I worry about routine
and consistency
more than anything else.

This is what ruined me before-
comfort.
and I need to talk to someone everyday
or I will become too much into my own head
that I think myself into
thinking that everything is going wrong.

It's like I'm trying to find reasons
to not be happy
and I'm so scared of having nothing
that I end up giving myself it anyway.
That way I am safe and not worrying
about when everything will go wrong
because it already is.

I've never been so happy-
and it scares the living **** out of me.
I just want it to be like we used to,
I'm scared of you not trying anymore
because you have me-
it's happened too many times before.

Then you get comfortable
and then I don't matter
and I turn into a bagel
left stale in your bread bin.
I turn into something always there
but never paid attention to.

None of this has happened
but I feel it slowly in my bones
that history will repeat itself
and I will end up lonely
and in love
and hurting all over again.

I just want to feel like
I matter I guess.
Like even though you have me
you'll still try for me.
But we all know how this goes,
and history repeats itself again
and I end up a moldy bagel
waiting to go stale
waiting to be thrown away.

I'm mad at myself again-
so **** forgiving to everyone else

What did I do so wrong to me?
Why can't I let **** go.

Get it together.
You're all you have.

I'm waiting in the Starbucks line-
Homework due in an hour.
I realize my clothes don't match.
I also realize this is a lot like
what love feels like.
A letdown.
A constant urgency.
Insecurity that a deadline will not be made.
Making small stupid decisions based on your addictions.
Then the coffee I sip tastes like ****
all because the line to get it was super long-
too much ice and not enough coffee.
I drink it too fast and it makes me sick-
I'm thinking it was because of the pills
not so much the coffee this time.
And I continue to think about love.
How I never want to take that many pills again.
How I never want to play tic tac toe
with every negative emotion I have
I don't think I ever want to find love again.
Because this type of destruction should not happen more than once-
but to me, it's happened more than that.
Even the worst things in history are often repeated.
That's what being in love with you feels like-
A used history book too worn and used
to even show any inherent value-
But you love history and what it has to offer.
So you tape back the broken spine
in hopes of salvaging what you love so much.
But it's never enough to make it readable
it's never enough to use for notes later on
or to read your favorite chapter
and all you can think about is how wonderful it once was.
When you were pulling back each page
so filled with joy about what the next had to offer.
You had a lot to offer-
but all you saw was your broken spine
and torn apart pages.
I wrote my name inside the front cover
etched in pen so everyone would know it was mine-
but I guess my name faded and now it's all just smeared ink
you can't even spell out what it says anymore
maybe because I lost myself inside of you.
I'm again looking at how my clothes don't match
and how much time I took to put this outfit on
but the lighting in my room is dim
and when the actual sunlight shows more things
than the darkness of faded counterfeit wattage
you start to see the things you're missing-
like yourself.
You would like to send someone out to find you
maybe your parents or your friends
but they're all too busy in their own lives
so you look for yourself-
by yourself
and you wonder how you got this way.
How two nights ago you happen to be the same person
you were six years ago-
even the worst things in history are often repeated.
I'm starting to think taking this medicine
wasn't such a good idea.
But the only reason I did it in the first place
was because of how crazy I felt with you.
I didn't want to be crazy anymore-
I wanted love to work for once.
I guess you can't teach yourself something you've never seen
like how I taught myself to swim by watching my brother
and I taught myself how to tie my shoes watching spongebob.
No one ever showed me love-
no one ever put on that play for my young eyes to see
so now I'm searching and searching for something
when I don't even know what the **** I'm looking for.
I think I would rather look for myself instead-
I'm sure I never want to look for love again
but what happens when I try to love myself?
How can you achieve something so foreign?
God could be a fat, black, lesbian jew
and how would we know, we've never actually seen God..
That's kind of how I feel about love.
It could be a giant hurricane destroying everything
because that's the only love I've ever known.
I can read about it until my eyes are heavy-
I can watch it in movies until makeup is stained on my cheeks
but none of it ever means anything to me
in a world where I never mean anything to you.
Love is kind of like starbucks-
it's convenient because it's everywhere
and everyone is waiting in line to get a taste
most of the time it's not what you expected
and it's usually just bitter-
but sometimes you get lucky
and everything is sweet-
the way you wanted it to be
until it's empty.
I am empty.

Seems you spend
so much time
worried sick
about my mental state
I'm starting to think
I'm not okay.
You convince me
I'm not okay.
Let me lie here
enjoy the silence.
I don't want to drown
inside of worry.
Not anymore.

He was like an addiction.
The kind I needed
to hide from everyone
The kind I needed
to make myself feel okay again.
He numbed the pain
and everything
just ended up foggy-
a haze of gray etched
between these fingers
that would sweat without him.
I craved the touch too much.
So I tried to quit him
when he made me feel like
dying was a better option.
But the withdrawal became
too much for my chest to handle
too much for me to swallow
and I ended up sick-
wishing I was pulling him to my lips and savoring every minute.
He was the drug I ran into
and became my addiction ever since.
These hands shake without him.
I am calm in his embrace.
Do not take me with you
for I do not need fixing anymore.
This drug will keep me warm
His love will keep me warm.
They say addiction changes you into someone you don't want to be.
Maybe they're right-
Or maybe this is me
and always will be.

What the **** am I doing with my life? A question I don't think I ponder enough. Whenever this question arises I simply reply to myself. "I don't ******* know?" and continue on with my day not thinking about it again until my broken record of a mind wants to stick on that subject for hours on end, making me replay every decision I've made up until this point and oh ****... am I ******* failure? I have no clue what I want to do with the rest of my life, what if I wanna have kids or get married or be successful? WHAT THE **** AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE. "I don't ******* know" and I think thats ******* okay because **** I am only 19 and I'm not like Ted Mosby who thinks he has to be married by thirty.... ****, do I even wanna get married? The only thing I'm sure of in my life that stays is this pen and this page, these fingers and this rage and this insane desire to eat bacon at least once a day. I am ******, but I mean that's okay because I'm doing my thing, working it all out as I go. I am inconsistent and I change my mind more than most new parents change diapers, or housing, or credit cards when trying to pay for their groceries. I will never stay the same and that's one thing I can say for sure won't change. I'm okay, and I may not know what I want to do with my life but there's time for that. I have more walls to punch holes into, more nights to spend drunken slurring more secrets than I care to recollect, and even more nights spent alone crying into my pillow wondering why the **** no one treats me with the same decency I treat them. I guess this is growing up and **** I think Blink 182 depicted it better.

I want you-
to want to be with me.
In all ways more than what we are.
I am tired of letting you hold me at night-
tired of feeling your arms around me
when we are not one.
Tired of the questions  inside of my life
ringing with curiosity of an answer I do not possess.
There is no future here-
I realize that now.
My expectations have led me astray
and I feel so alone again.
Deserving more than I give myself,
not enough credit
where payment is due.
I'm not your leased item-
the nice suit in the store window
you will return once you've worn it enough.
You have no intention of keeping me
you just want me to be only yours.
I can't even formulate poems properly
because I'm tired of fighting with myself
about these feelings of which I do not know.
Hope has led me nowhere again
and I am lost at the fork in the road.

I spend so much time telling myself not to break
I forget to acknowledge the fact-
I'm already ******* broken.
The pieces of me are spread out
amongst the hearts I've ripped to pieces
not realizing because the bottle
masked any emotion I thought I had.
It ***** listening to the stories of her
how highly you think of someone
who tore apart your heart-
I guess just like I did
and maybe that's why I hate her
maybe because I actually hate what I did to you...
But still hearing her ******* name makes me cringe
because you were the first person I actually opened up to
and **** I ******* cared for you.
If you think for a second that I didn't
then good, that's exactly what I wanted back then.
But now, I wish I could've let you know
it was never you-
the reason that I ran
It was insecurity and low self worth
that sent me running far from what I wanted all along.

I gave love a chance again,
because I didn't wanna **** up
the way I so royally did with you.
I know you never loved me
not like you thought you did at least
and you never fell for me exactly
just the mere idea of who you thought I was.
But I am damaged-
and I would have destroyed you
every single thing you gave,
because that's what I did then.

But because of you
I found great love
and opened up in ways
I never thought I would.
I learned to love myself
after I lost you.
My days are spent loving someone
in a way I never thought was even possible.
I never want this feeling to end,
and god I hope you get what you deserve.
You deserve so much.
Find it, and never let it go-
I know **** well I won't make that mistake again
I will love until I can no longer take it anymore-
It's an addiction, and ironically a cure.

America.
Home of the brave land of the-
1,520 children who died this year from child abuse
and the 670,000 who lived through it
The 1,825 who are abused each day
and for every one report of child abuse-
two others go unreported.
So Josh Duggar can get away with molestation
because of the statue of limitations-
and everyone talks of "his recovery"
but his own sisters cries go unheard.

Oh America-
Where colleges would rather
cover up a ****, than catch a ******.
Where High Schools take pity
on abusers who play sports
or have a high social standing-
Where abusers don't get charged
because the girl they gang raged
was "intoxicated".
Where 4/5 of assaults are committed
by someone known to the victim.
44% of victims are under 18
and every 107 seconds another PERSON
is sexually assaulted
and 68% go unreported
and 98% of rapists will never spend a day in jail.

America-
Home of brave land of the-
41,149 deaths by suicide in 2014.
where it's the 3rd leading cause of death
in youth ages 10-24.
Where 70% of youth in juvenile justice systems
suffer from a mental illness-
but instead of treating it
we continue punishing it.

America.
Where John Green can romanticize
the 2nd leading cause of death in the US
Cancer!
Speaking of cancer-
why haven't we found a cure?
America!
Where why would they find a cure
for a billion dollar industry
that's fueling our economy.

America.
where you have freedom of speech-
but jet fuel can't melt steel beams
and everything is a government conspiracy.
Loose change taught you more about 9/11
than the news.
Where 500,000 Iraqi civilians
have died because of the Iraq war.
and roughly 6,000 soldiers died in Iraq-
but that's not including those who died after the fact
brain intact with PTSD coming home to broken families-
and we still think war is a smart idea.

America!
Where those who are supposed to protect us
eventually just start killing us-
and getting away with it to!
Where protests turn to riots
and everyone that's a shade darker
is labeled "****"
But an "upstanding"
white male citizen
can get away with molesting his sisters-
I'm looking at you Duggar, again.
Where Freddie Gray can be tortured to death
but hey no one cares
because he had a record of selling drugs right?

America-
The land of brave home of the
genetically modified foods.
You know-
the food we actually have to re-modifed
so other countries will deem it safe enough to eat.
Where our fruit isn't even actually fruit
unless it's label ORGANIC.
Where there's a McDonald's around every street corner
and being Vegan in today's food industry is impossible-

America!
Where we were once a melting ***-
but everyone complains about immigrants.

America!
Home of the brave, land of the free.
Where ignorance and Justin Bieber
are more accepted than the LGBT community-
aren't you proud to be an american?

I have learned,
people leave you
cold and broken
like my youth
and the only thing
that will ever stay
in my life
is that pen
and that pad of paper.

because my sanity
means more to me
than pleasing others
and my sanity
can only stay
if that pen and pad
are next to me

so take away my
so-called friends
lost inside
never empty pill bottles
and always empty
bottles of sorrow
and remind me why
this is what i cling to.

this is my far few in between
this is my light
at the end
of a never lit tunnel.
This is where misery
and it's company
join hands and dance
in the moonlit
darkness of the past.

The only thing
I've ever held close to me,
was anger and resentment
for those who i'm supposed to love
I find fatal flaw
where there isn't any
I look for wrong
in those who try to do me right
which is why I write.
because the only form
of therapy available to me
costs sixty bucks an hour
and that hour
holds more secrets
than my mind
will allow me to speak.
So I bleed ink
and hope that some sense
of relief
flows through my fingertips
like the weight upon my shoulders

and the only thing
worth fighting for
in my eyes
are the things
that are fighting with me.
Which is why people
come and go.
But blank pages
are always meant to be filled.

You spend
most of your nights
missing her.

You steady your walk-
forcing yourself
towards a double bed
you no longer find comfort in.

The floor wraps it's
fibers around your feet
and you cling to the carpet.

It smells new like-
this isn't a house you've
spent most of your life
buried in.

Move away.

Remind yourself
what freedom feels like.
Be up early to admire
the dew again.

Let it seep
through your bones.

Soak inside of it
like moisture is your head's
only ticket to closure.

You think of her again.

Break the blades of grass
between your fingers
and convince yourself
you and precipitation
have something in common-

these tears they contribute
to your growth.  

Wake up.

Pay attention to
the fact you lived.
Don't be mad she didn't

I try to ask you how your day is going
but the bravery slips from my lips
and I am worried those are not the right words-
all I can muster up the courage to say is whats up?
I tip-toe around your emotions like this is minesweeper
waiting for any move I make to make you explode-
but it seems the only thing I'm sweeping is my mind
in an attempt to rack yours.
Am I yours anymore?
Because these days all seem to blend together
and I try to avoid the explosions
but they seem to come anyways
always hiding behind passive aggressions
and misread text messages
because you don't like texting
so I tend to keep quiet.
Try to stay silent as long as I possibly can
but with every good thing that happens I want to turn to you
and every bad thing, I want to run to you.
Is that a crime?
Am I a nuisance for sprinting to you with my issues
and am I naive for thinking
that you would welcome them with open arms.
I feel like this is high school again-
because I think that was the last time
I was actually scared to talk to someone..
See my heart beats out of my chest for you
but it seems everyday I am struggling
more and more to keep it beating less
because I am an anxiety ridden mess already
and not telling you about it makes it worse-
trying to make you understand makes it worse-
you not believing I can't control it makes it so much worse
and these things I wish I didn't go through
I ******* do
so why should I have to keep them from you?
BOOM.
Another bomb dropped at my feet
and all I can make out is the ringing in my ears
I'm so ******* tired of not being me..
I just warily wait in the corner for another explosion these days
and you keep telling me to talk to you
but the words come out muffled and I am flustered.
I'm not sure how to explain to you
if I can't over-explain it or make it a big deal
because these things, to me, are a big deal
I'M A ******* BIG DEAL!
I am the bomb ready to explode,
I am the snake in the grass nipping at your ankles-
I am the ******* 4am phone call crying for help.
And I am worth every single ******* star
in the entire universe because I shine just as bright
and provide you with a way out of your own darkness-
so ******* treat me as such.

My body aches for acknowledgement
and a mere sense of safety
and closeness.
I am like a small child
yearning for some kind of attention
some small sense of affirmation.

My mind wanders from time to time
into the dark abyss that is my past.
Parental issues
and every other issue for that matter,
but all that mattered when I was young
was being old
and when I didn't feel love
like I should've
someone showed me an alternative.
The lust I felt at a young age,
wasn't ideal.
Nothing was ideal for me
it was more so just, life.

Life took my sanity
and I fell victim
to a lack there of.
Falling accustomed
to being under the covers.
falling accustomed
to being under another
falling accustomed
to not wanting to be a child
but wanting to grow up
so I could say
stop it, go away.

But I grew up quickly
and I learned just the same
that no one
not even you
can degrade my name.
The *****
the brunette
and the monster in my bed
are all what seem to run through my head
are all the reasons I wish I were dead.

I wear this smile painted across my lips like an eviction notice-
like you have two days to wipe it clean before someone else does.
So my smile goes away for a while
reminds me it was never really too fond of commitment
I guess it takes after me.
Some days it finds it's way back to me-
sulking because it couldn't find anyone else as good.
Even though it tried-
really ******* hard.
Apologies are the only language it seems to know
and advice is the only thing it has to offer
but no one cares to find it when it runs.
When it's busy playing hop scotch
with this heart of mine-
then someone pulls something
and the pain starts.
No one notices it until it's already too late
until the pain has made it's way into my mind
and formulated itself into my edges
planted seeds in every part of me
so it will always be growing
no matter how much I forget to water it.

Some days-
my smile sings me lullabies
and reminds me how beautiful the music is
then someone kisses me and I am reminded
that music is just a synonym for therapy
and no one will ever be able to play the keys
in the soft mellow tune of the saxophone the way I like.
I'll always be destined for that eviction notice
because it seems I haven't paid my dues.

People come around and feed this scene I like to play-
they realize they are trying to fit inside this image I present to them
feeding off the fiction inside my facade
and when it comes down to me-
when the cape is ripped away and it is shown
I am a mere moral amongst men
they start to run away again.
They realize this me that they saw
wasn't what they expected-
wasn't what they thought they wanted
and I turn into the *******.
Always hurting those who don't realize who I am-
an eviction notice at your doorstep.
A smile, not even I know how to keep.

I watch as the days decay you,
as every inch closer  
makes you that much farther away.
It wasn't too easy with you
and it isn't so easy now with someone else.

The tips of your fingers were halfway out the door,
the bottom of your heels were close to the clouds
I knew you were never coming back to us.

This life is just a mis-categorized movie in a netflix cue.
Not exactly what you expected, but has some potential.

The beds where we lay our heads at night
could so soon turn into our coffins
and I often imagine a world where
stars are our only home
and death is just an alternate route back.

We cling to these feelings.
And if John Green can turn it into
something seemingly beautiful
why can't I?
Maybe because this is real life,
and this life comes with no storyline that's written
it takes more days than I have hands
and more thought than I have love in my heart
so I wonder why we find beauty in tragedy
and entertainment in things we don't suffer through.

We all feed off of the story lines and the drama,
the death and the heartbreak
because it makes it all seem interesting and worth it
when in reality,
no matter how much we say we want to be happy-
we're all just looking for a chance to feel something.

take my open wounds and
slice them with the razor blade
that is your tongue and
make me wonder why I stick around.
I can’t help the hells I have faced
and I know what is true.
But you take my tragedy
and tie it to your train of thought
sending it to another place
so you don’t have to deal
or ever feel anything other than
your own ignorant bliss.
i told you in confidence
and got overshadowed by your doubt
and suddenly she became crazy,
which means maybe I am too
because I am a product of my
own inane environment
and how do I separate
from what surrounds me
when it’s all I have left.

I have dealt with the beer can
antics and the intoxicated ignorance
for far too long to just
push it to the back of my mind.
I’m not sure if you’re an *******,
or you have that much trouble
being an empathetic person.
But you will never understand the
tides I have faced or the hells
i have stumbled through
weak and unaware of what’s ahead.
I have been turned into nothing more
than a punching bag for misplaced
anger and a lashing tongue
for pent up aggression
and not i’m not sure if this
is making the wounds I carry heal
over with a skin thats thick as glass
or if the skin i am in is just withering away
with every word you speak to me.
I’m tired of the tragedy,
just give me some sense of normality.

I would like to put into words the way you made me feel ******* crazy-
but you would just see them as an apology note written at your doorstep.
Your ears would close and all you would notice is that I'm standing-
right in front of you so I must be crawling back.
It is never that.

One-sided is the way we fell in love.
You told me you loved me first
I said it back when I actually meant it
but somewhere along the line the roles got reversed
and I ended up being the one who felt more in love
like I had to keep the strings just perfect length
or we would both fall apart.
I was never a jealous person but in your attempt to keep me
you became what held me back
and I guess that was your idea of keeping me.
You never liked my friends-
talked **** every chance you could get
and then wondered why I got so upset when you did.
Blatant disrespect.

My dad called you the wrong name last week-
tried to make fun of the fact we broke up
but I laughed as another's name left his lips
you were just as much of a stranger to him as you've become to me.
I realized we've always been one-sided.
My family doesn't ask when you don't come around
you've become just another face inside their world too
I bet yours do
and that you cringe when you hear my name leave their lips
Took the time to learn about your family-
but you never had the decency for mine
it was like you knew this wasn't going to last
or were you so scared it wasn't, you didn't even try.

You were my trigger-
my relapse back into old habits
my cutting addiction-
my tendency to repeatedly punch myself in the face
you made me feel ******* crazy.
So I just laugh when you say you miss me now
because I don't miss any part of you
aside from the late night **** rips
and cuddling asleep.
I only miss you next to me or inside me.
But emotionally?
You can miss me with all that **** again and again and again.
But all I will ever be is a friend.
I will never feel that kind of insecure, jealous and crazy
not the way you made me.
growth is not an option at this point,
it's mandatory.

these words hurt too much to write down.
too busy trying to make everything sound perfect
but too insecure to let myself fail.
so in this instance I just don't try.
let all of my work go unwritten
just like the scars on my legs go unnoticed
and my pain gets overlooked.
I'm not a good writer anymore
I don't think I ever was
but there are some words I can string
together like a symphony to make anyone believe in me
but this is just a facade
just a game we all like to play
but I'm out of chips now-
I have nothing left to give anymore
and I'm walking through life
like it's a keyboard I don't have to look at
because I already know where this is going
I already know where everything is.
Wanting to write reeks havoc on my insides
not being able too makes it all worse for me again.
I string these lines together but they're always out of tune.
my mind is always two steps away from every edge
I walk upon and somehow I walk over them.
Down for the count and I'm tired of writing in first person.
Tired of being this person.
my point of view is blurred
and so are these words in front of me.
existing doesn't feel too good anymore
and it seems as if everyone is trying to tell me otherwise.
believing them would be nice
trusting someone again would be nice
but these are not things my mind is equipped to handle.
So I try to handle as much as I can at once
and just hope it doesn't take me over that edge.
these hands on these keys make mistakes
but somehow I always know when and where to correct them.
being okay is such a foreign concept to me
and I don't have any real reason to not be right now
but i'm still not sure why everything hurts so much
maybe I haven't dealt with the parts of my life I should have
and maybe they're just waiting in the back of my mind
to attack the person I have become
because sometimes, in the dead of the night
these thoughts will creep up to me.
when I'm cold and lonely
they'll tap me on the shoulder-
remind me they're still there to help me stay down when I fall.
They know balance has never been my forte.
I guess that's why I can never hold on to anything

I am suffocating.
The elephant in the room is breathing all the oxygen
and my lungs have become too weak to function anymore.
The tiles of my veins are cracked upon the impact
of your expectations falling on my shoulders.
I am no soldier.

I've been drafted into a war I didn't sign up for..
I guess this is another civil war,
and I wish, oh god I wish I could be civil
in a house with no chivalry.
It's only consequential severity
of your actions and reactions
even when you take no action at all.

I am not your verbatim bully.
You will not be the hands that turn my time.
Not anymore, not this time.
I'm done choking on the tongue
I spend my days biting.

Your words are like razor blades
calling for my wrists again.
No, not again.
No, never again.

The war will end.
I will unleash every amount of ammunition I have
onto your doorstep.
Death and me have the same address.
My wrath will end you-
and subsequently me too.

I can't stop picturing
what my life would look like
if in fact it turned out the way I wanted it to.
My self-conscious subconscious would love you better
and I would take back every ******* excuse
I left you with.
I want nothing but happiness-
and that can't happen without you
the gaps in between my fingers become cold again
and your eyes are the only warmth I've felt in a long time,
so fill the dark void I spent my days trying to pinpoint
and draw the line where I can reach you
because you're the only thing I'll ever hold dear to.
It may be drastic to say-
but I don't want to live a life without you
so carry me under your skin
and make a sonnet out of my smile
you're the only one who ever sees it anyway.
You are found in every crease upon my smiling face
my body feels you in every crevice
and even when the evening touches my hips
and curls under my bedsheets-
only to kiss my lips asleep
that's where I want you to be,
curled up in the places next to me.
When the darkness overwhelms my eye sockets
and the depth of depression crushes my nerves
and I can no longer stand the sight of you not there
that is where you will find me.
So run to me when everything is crumbling,
I will be your safety net.
When your heart gets broken again
from the smiles you attempt to mend-
I will be your super glue.
Always and forever,
can't be forever without you.

I'm nearing the brink of insanity again
because as the days pass by
I can no longer get the thoughts of you
out of my mind-
I wonder when I will lose it.
Cave into the solitude I've always known
and end every tie I have with those around me.
See when you left-
the music stopped
and my hands stopped being able to write
these fingers would type and type
but no string of notes formulated.
I do not hear the bells anymore-
just the sound of a car crash
because everything feels like such a wreck.
I can't seem to dream about anything anymore
except for something relating to you
and I would like to think these
are all signs we should start running back-
that all we need in this life is each other again
but now I'm too afraid.
I've become scared and insecure since you left
but gained a facade thats hard to let go of.
Hiding my feelings was routine before you showed up
and reminded me what the good ones felt like-
until you showed me even you can cause
the bad ones too.
I always keep things inside
clinging to my repressive tendencies
I wish I never had to.
I feel lost-
I just hope you find yourself
and I hope you find your happy
I'm just sorry it couldn't be with me.
I'm sorry I keep searching
for pieces of you I will never find-
for signs that one day things will be different.
I just keep clinging on to a hope
that I'm not really sure I should.
But love just doesn't disappear
it crashes and burns.

Sleeping has never been my forte so as thoughts of you creep inside mind I try to reiterate the advice I heard from my brother. Melting into my thoughts as I try to count sheep but they just end up running away and I am lost again. He said, "you can't make someone your passion, but you can be passionate about someone". But how do I separate the two when everything I do is extreme and intense and never subtle. Love isn't just a weekend lake house for me, it's the bed where I lay my head at night. It's not just a power ballad for me, it's an entire acoustic album filled with melodies you don't even wanna hear anymore. I don't half *** anything, especially you. But maybe that's my issue, these emotions are never half hearted. They take up my entire body as an entity, eventually I can't let go. I am who I am and you are who you are. We are both gray areas because we do not understand ourselves, maybe one day you can be yin and I can be yang and we can meet somewhere in the middle completing what it takes to make us whole again. I am whole. But it just feels a little better with you next to me.

I wished for security,
in ways only you could
lock around my uncontrollable conscious.
I just wished for sanity,
inside your warm embrace
but you scolded me with your backfire,
and scorned me with your tongue.
The only thing I ever really need
is your action to yell down my throat
and jump my bones,
but your words are silent
and my bones are chilled.  
Seems my nerves have been shot
and you loaded the gun
So I grow weak as anxiety overwhelms me
whilst I sit on top of this mountain
of circumstance that’s been built for me.
I’m sorry I can’t control time,
or the way things workout for the worst
but maybe you need to realize
that you need me,
just as much as I needed you.

Please don't break.
Not again.
Hold it together,
you've done so well
don't let the presence of death
upon your doorstep bring you down.
The blade is faded and no longer a vice
even though it calling your name
lures you in again and again and again,
it is not your friend.

Don't do it, don't cry.
You are more than the circumstance
that surrounds you.
You are stone,
you are strong and unbreakable.
The tides of the times you've tried
are heavier than the crosses you bare
so even when that weight is upon
your frail shoulders, don't break.
Pick yourself up and get some exercise.

The scars are finally healed,
and no one can see them
no more nagging questions,
no more paranoia.
The flesh isn't just skin anymore,
it's apart of who you are,
who you've become
so don't let who you are
in this moment of turmoil
break all your progress.
You are more than this.

Tainted,
life has been that way
since you were young
and although you know
what exactly it feels like
to never catch a break
because you're held down by instances
that can't be controlled,
The chaos is mandatory
but suffering through it is not.

So tie your worries to all of your dreams
and watch the dreams carry your worries away.
Today is not a bad day.
Take off your shoes and dance in the rain.
Today is a good day.

I told you I'm sorry,
for breaking too often and not building enough,
but you told me some things are meant to be broken-
things other than my smile.
So I smiled and you told me it was like poetry,
soft, troubled but always within reason.

I come from an environment
where change is an everyday routine
and people can flip their switch
at the strike of a match
so I apologize if every instance
of difference sends me spiraling
downward into a self inflicted
illusion that may or may not be real
but I can’t help that every small
indication of separation
makes me cringe.
I have fallen in love
and fallen accustomed
to hyper sensitivity
and hyper awareness
because the only love
I’ve ever been apart of
was unrequited and
I was inadequate.
And the only love I have
ever been shown
was intoxicated
by madness
and left in the cold
with mental scars
and bruises on young arms.
I don’t want my past
to destroy my future
but if you’ve seen the life
I have been shown
you would think there were
roaches in diamonds
and disease in gold.
Love is not
what makes me paranoid
it’s loyalty,
because how can I learn
to receive
what I’ve never in my dark past
been shown or reciprocated.
I need to learn to trust
in mostly myself and I
because I’m tired of thinking
every beautiful day and genuine person
is all just an a illusion of my mind.

Blink twice
this is nothing short
of a mid-mid-life crisis.
And you can use
  these vices
  as an oath to your past
  a signature
on your obituary.

I started writing mine
  long before I knew I died.
  long before deception
  hid in the back of lungs -
  and the reputation of my liver
  yes it proceeds itself
  and I seem to repress it all.
                                            
I'm tired of running scared
compromise holds me
  like a warm gun-
  a vice grip
  on these vices
And I feel it
starting to slip.

kiss the barrel baby
you never know
  when the safety's off
  Don't you trust me?
  just say you do.
Don't you trust me?
  I don't
well neither did you.  

Watched you lie
   (In your sins)
   And on your back
You roped me in
   and won't throw me back
Sinking ship
Abandonment.
This is where repetition
meets Russian roulette
   play it back again.

I'm not opposed to my introspective nature
that most cling on to with broken fingers
and ever trembling lips.
I am forever embracing my most outer self
in more ways than just one.
The sun never really rises and falls,
the earth where you're standing just changes locations
and I am located just above the brink of insanity
waiting until the world turns just enough for me to fall again-
but as the fleeting world speaks to me with tone deaf hears
all I can seem to dissect from the conversation is
that forever means nothing in a world where
tomorrow could never come again-
I could never come again
but I will not take that liberty from myself
I will not sacrifice my freedom of expression
for a small sense of morality
I'm not sure exists in the eyes of those around me anymore.
The one being of my own being means more to me
than being something I'm not
so the facade I play day by day
seems to break away at the edges
like a clay molding of who I once was
and I will make a stone masterpiece
with just my broken fingertips.
Spongebob ain't got **** on me
because these hands can carve memories
into the retinas of another human being
and make this life a masterpiece.
Don't ******* try me
because I will swallow you whole
and spit you back out faster than you can tell me otherwise.
I have self-inflicted my own pain too long
to not come back strong like stone.
Like dark canvas silhouettes syruping over sunrise
when sibilance meets promiscuous  
that's where you will find my sunday best.
My meeting with the God that may or may not exist
the self-loathing meets with the self-fulfilling prophecy
and I am the head of the dinner table.
So dig in-
feast your eyes upon the glory that can be.
Feast your eyes upon defeat below your common nature.
Remember morality is a game that only you like to play
just to show others you can win-
but what good is winning if you don't know loss?

Succumbing to the silence
has left me ill-hearted.
The head that has been placed
between these shoulders
weighs heavy on my conscious.
The only way to stay sane
is surrounding myself with noise.
This chair that has been kicked
from beneath me has a name now.
It calls out mine when I sleep
and it repeats in my head
until I understand why it's there.
It's purpose is to make me feel alone-
so far it is winning.
So far, I do nothing to stop it.

This ache inside my chest
has left me concave-
I used to be so convex.
Used to fall outside of everyone else's angles
and now I'm closed off
so inside myself that I am blind
to anything other than your smile.
I would like to talk about how the pain hurts
how I hope the air I breathe becomes poison
and I don't wake at all.

I try to scream,
no one is around to hear me anymore
they're all stuck inside of others
when no one will even stick around
to see me come outside again.
If you fall down and become a train wreck
and no one is around to hear you  
does that mean you haven't gone off the rails?
Does that make your pain irrelevant
and the mess you've made non existent?

I guess I'll never know-
because I seem to be the tree that never grows
just stays dormant until my time comes
but I don't think it ever will.
Seasons don't mean much to me
and I wish I could be happy.
But this type of soil where I try to soak my roots
is not nourishing enough to let me grow.
So I wither and no one seems to know I am here.
A flower un-bloomed I have lived unknown
and no one will see me become beautiful
because I keep getting walked all over,
no one cares unless you've blossomed
not until you've become worthy of picking.

Pull your hair out, pull your ******* hair out.
Punch yourself in the face you ******* deserve it.
Can't breathe again.
Weights pressing down on your chest.
**** not again, no not again.
Gonna say something you regret-
Don't ******* text him, don't do it.
******* did it.
Great, now your relationship will probably be over.
Everything feels over, everything is ending.
I want everything to end...

The tears stream down my face
the lungs I use to breathe are the only things holding me back
these hands I use to write are gripping the pavement again
because I don't think I've ever felt so low.
But just yesterday I was on such an endorphin high
I was running in the rain until my socks were
just puddles below my feet
the sky was just an outline of the child I used to be
and now everything feels so ******* temporary-
you can't catch your breath long enough to tell yourself
everything will be okay and somehow earlier today
you were doing just fine.
But these hand clutch your skull again
as you pull your hair-
hoping you are ripped to shreds
because you are trapped inside yourself
a prisoner of your own body and it will never leave
everyday you fight harder to survive
but it seems like each ******* episode gets worse.
Every mistake makes you feel worse-
every mis-autocorrected word on your phone is like
someone punching you in the throat
and you somehow let that control you and you breakdown-
throw your phone and it crashes at the wall again.
You hate yourself for these things you can't control.
Everyday is a battle you can't win
and everything falls to the ground again-
including yourself.
There is a city upon your shoulders now
and it seems your mind is only building it even higher-
you wished you could throw it off but it's getting too heavy now.
All you can do is sit and wait for it to crush you from the inside out-
slowing breaking you down one missed phone call
and un-replied text message at a time
you are breaking down.
All the help you once searched for has gone out of business
and the man on the inside ran away because it was too much to handle-
you've always been to much to handle.
But those days when everything seems wonderful come-
those days when the hands you possess seem like shooting stars
making your every wish come true again-
you are invincible.
Nights spent laughing at four walls encased with your sense of humor
and indulging yourself because everything seems so good again.
But you remember this won't last too long and your back-
back to agitation inside your bones and the war inside your head,
city on your shoulders you are crushed under the weight.

Some days it feels as if all I need is myself to make me happy-
some days it's this same self that brings me so much misery.
Other days I'm just myself, getting by like everyone else.
Then on the worst days, they all hold hands and become friends
they all form a clique and I become a target for misplaced aggression.
My manic depression is a bully, 6pm traffic jams-
and spills on your new t-shirt.
My manic depression is a sugar high, 3pm mid day naps
and waking up just in time for McDonald's breakfast.  
My manic depressions is nirvana and insanity
it holds my hand across busy streets-
but will also never let go of me.

I have been accustomed
to dark hallways
and never quiet homes.
I've spent life hiding
behind masks of people
I hardly even know.
I looked up to the ones
who looked down on me
and not because
I was young and naive and short
but because I had no self worth.

I put my all into people
who gave me back nothing
and lost myself in the process.
The self discovery I should've experienced
was hid away in the dark hallways
and drown out by the sleepless nights.

I've taught myself most things,
like how to tie shoes, and do makeup
but what I cling too dear to myself
is how I learned without being taught
that more often than not
never being shown a way
can make way for an even brighter tomorrow.

I'm not good at a lot
like talking about my feelings
or making room for myself to grow
but I am good at being me
whoever that may be
and even though
I may be lost
inside still dark hallways
and always quiet homes
I have found love
where there was never any at all
I have found hope
when I had never known the meaning
I have found light
inside the dark covers
I'd been hiding under.

rewind.
then press play.

I want to trace sonnets into your fingertips,
because it's like poetry when you touch me.
I will let your smile be a blueprint
for the outlines of my heavy heart
so you know exactly what's been broken from those before you
so you know just what only you can rebuild.
I want to watch our world burn
and then rise again from the ashes at our feet
making rose gardens and hydrangeas out of the rubble
until the world that was once just ash and dust
becomes forests, fields and valleys of what can be-
I want to grow with you.

Inconsistency breaks me-
when the routine you have inplanted inside my mind turns into only seeds.
I have no room to grow.
When the words are no longer leaving your lips I linger for the affirmation.
One moment the love comes-
The next I am questioning it's authenticity.

Breaking has been the only thing I've ever known-
Fists broke walls
Repression broke bottles
and circumstance broke me.
These walls that built me
The ones I have been trapped inside
are caving in now-
no one is here to help me stop it.
No one is strong enough to save me.

Bring me routine-
find a sunset inside my eyes
that always starts at the same time.
Wake me when it rises
and let me watch it by your side.
I'm sorry for all the times
I talked too much
and didn't listen enough.
But my mind runs circles
around my logic sometimes
and becomes too dizzy to continue.

I've never been good at emotions-
never learned what they were
until I had to stop pushing them back
eventually they demanded revenge.

I was dealt a ****** hand-
no one was there to shuffle the cards when the game ended
so I kept getting dealt the same.
I folded a long time ago
but it seems I've become too in debted to the past.
Cash in my chips-
spend it on whatever you wish.
Just don't play these games anymore.
I'm tired of not knowing your cards
I've had enough trouble predicting my own.

Give me routine
and I will give you my happy.
Give me consistency
and I will give you the best of me.
Tell me things you're too afraid to say
and I will do the same.
Love me consistent-
It will rid of the erratic.
Love me routinely-
I'm tired of breaking.

I'm tired of being empty bottles
and filled spaces there for your temporary usage.
I never stand too firmly on the ground
because the other foot awaits cautiously
for my next wrong move.
Even when I think I do everything right
somehow I end up breaking the empty bottles
and filling the space thats supposed to be sacred.
All I ever wanted to do was make someone else happy-
but I suppose I'm better off alone.
So take this as my open-ended apology letter
and feel free to walk away
because I am, for the last time-
for good.
Never again.

I would like to wrap my words around this page-
outstretch my arms so I can hold up the stage below me
tell it-
tell everyone
things will not be this bad for too much longer..
But I've never really been much of a liar
just a melancholy toned razor tongue
with a quick wit and keen punchlines
I am all and I am nothing in the same breath.
Breathe. I try to track how many I take
but there's too much breathing and not enough oxygen
these arms are now making me choke
held too tightly around this stage
that has become my throat
these words are slipping
they have become my will, my oath
my proof that something exists
and as it is all drifting and drifting
I am reminded-
nothing does.
My mind plays tricks on itself
my left brain likes to tie a lasso around my right
until all of the creativity is squeezed beneath my toes
under a microphone,
in front of a laptop,
for everyone to see
and laughs when it realizes this is all I have.
Then my right brain retaliates
excellerates into oblivion
and becomes one with my anxiety
it speeds up everything in my thinking process I own
until I am the one-
spinning and swerving and crashing
until I am the one-
manic and crying and thinking about death
and it laughs when I'm clutching my legs again
when it thinks it's won the battle
and see I wake up everyday and fight.
There is no beautiful music to play-
no genre to this madness
You can spin me like I'm on a record player
and watch me slowly turn.
There is no going backwards for me
only forward and repeat
and my history sounds a little like
a skipped disk in the CD slot
because you keep replaying the same parts
over and over and o-over and o-o-o-o-ver again.
This cycle plays on repeat for days on end
until eventually everyone gets tired of it
and it's thrown away-
These arms let go.
I am left speechless again.
Waiting. Waiting. Waiting
for the soft spoken tap of the keys to reel me back in
whispering a string quartet of desire and longing
only to watch my mind begin the game again.
Gaining only scratches on my surface-
Skip me.
I don't wanna play anymore.

1, 2, 3, 4
What are women fighting for?

My father doesn't know-
about my past.
As the **** culture comments
slip from his tongue-
I mourn for the women
who experience the same.

Because every time
it is a knife upon my spine
chipping away at my backbone.

Some days,
it hurts to stand up straight.

5, 6, 7, 8-
Women need to procreate!

We tell women
their legs are an entry way
men can use at will.

But then they urge us to keep the seed
growing inside of us-
when sometimes it is just a ****
coming to the surface
because of an invasion
of our own garden
the one we spent
so much time growing.

In the case we let it flourish
into a flower, even though we don't
have the proper nutrients
all of those mouths
that told us to water it
are now dry and absent.

They don't return
so we are the ones who become withered..

Once,
a man who thought we was more
medicine than overdose
took away a child
that could of been my sibling.

And ever since-
my mother feels the withdrawal.

7, 8, 9, 10-
Will **** culture ever end?

Not when there's a vulture
among the white house
now painted blood red,
Caucasian white,
and bruised ego blue.

When the words
are noosing their way
around our necks-
we must give misogyny a kiss of death.

When some "feminists"
spew misandry from the pores
remind them to exfoliate
the hatred from their vocal chords.

Remind them to
look up the definition of feminism.

We can't forget-
about the boy who was forced
by his cousin and stayed silent
because "men can't get *****"
right?

We can't forget-
about the women of color
who fight harder than most
because their skin
gives them the greater war.

When this America
is etched with white supremacy
Don't let them fetishize
or demoralize our sisters.
We stand together.

Don't let these instances
slip through your fingers.
Grab them by the throat
and remind yourself
of when they made
you lose your voice.

1, 2, 3, 4
What are the people fighting for?

******* Equality.

1) I still have not erased the imprints your hands left all over me. These days are numbered, just like the times you tried to ruin me. I've stopped counting on you to let me down again. I've stopped counting period.
2) I compare every single guy I meet to you, so far I'm doing my best at avoidance. So far none of them have made my stomach scream outside of my throat when they kiss me.
3) These pills are taken because I want to get better now, not because I don't. Milligrams don't always equate to death. I'm learning the language of recovery and self-discovery from a bottle and a progress book.
4) I can't see your face behind me when I'm naked inside the mirror, or under the sheets of ****** desire, I do not find you there anymore.
5) You do not control me- the reigns have loosened and your voice no longer lingers upon my tongue. I am no longer afraid of big crowds without alcohol. I am my own form of stability and sobriety.
6) This face does not need to be masked by propaganda in order to leave my bedroom, confidence has accumulated into my conscious now and there is no room for criticism.
7) You have left me for dead, just weeds upon an empty field- you made me feel as if my existence was a nuisance, like it was too minute to even recognize fully. But I will not let you be my deforestation, I have spent too much time growing these roots in a place where I will flourish- you will not be my wildfire, landslide or any form of natural disaster. You are a single raindrop at best.
8) *******.
9) *******.
10) You don't even deserve to know I'm better than what you did to me. But you need to know that when my father objectifies women, it cuts a knife deep into my spine that makes me slouch a little more and when other men do the same- it makes me stand up straight again. We are not a product of those who make us, we are just a result. But with repetition those results can change. All of us are theories, not to be proven. Always changing, collecting new data. Ready to be disproven. So test yourself, push your own boundaries and don't be afraid of change.

I got out of the box someone else put my innocence in- I found my way back to it time and time again but I realized it was only to get back what I had lost. Only to find that the box was empty, only to realize they never really had a hold on me. It was just a theory, you are just a theory.

We ******-

It was my first time,
but... it surely wasn't your first time.
Although it was your first time with me
and it wasn't exactly love making
because though we told each other
"I love you"
I still wasn't sure exactly how to make it,
just how to say it.
You were my first time,
saying I love you and I think that was harder,
than actually ******* you.
And as a poet, these details become stanzas
for others ears to hang onto like a leech,
******* out every last emotion and turning
into a self-sacrifice of one's own interpretation.

You make it soooo easy,
but at the same time you make it so ******* hard.
like the way at times, I can't find the words to rhyme
so I just make these words I speak to you run-on sentences
that never exactly end, just keep going
until i find some other **** to say to you to make you smile,
or **** you off, because i'm actually really good at that
in fact, i love the way you call me out on my *******.
The way I want to dye my hair crazy ******* colors,
but you turn up your nose and tell me no I shouldn't,
which I admire because I would probably regret it.

You're not afraid to tell me how you feel
you don't fear I will flip out or cry or cuss you out,
and I love you for that.
because for so long i've had people
walk around me like I was at the edge of insanity,
waiting until i was pushed to my imminent death.
But baby, you just don't care
because you are on that edge with me
swinging your feet along the side,
lifting your head back and screaming
"man, what a ******* ride."

We made love.
and i'm not sure if we really did,
but ******* it felt like it
because right then
your body was the only one
I ever wanted, ever again.
I'm not sure if that's ******* insane
because I don't believe in forever
and I'm not sure I believe in happily ever after.
But ******* baby, you took the pen from  my hand
and wrote me a novel with your lips across my skin
and made me forget about every single person,
who ripped open my chest, tore my heart out at the seems
and took a piece of me with them.
The story you wrote hasn't ended,
it's still being written
and like a chose your own adventure novel,
i'm not sure where this is gonna go..
or if what I say will send me down a snake hole
poisoning my mind with negativity
or have me fighting off the evil ninjas
out to control my thought process
but ****, i'm willing to risk it
because although i'm not sure where will this will take me,
i'm along for the ride and you have me hooked
with every paragraph and run-on sentence
you trace across my skin.
and like the wise words of Miles Hodges,
"your head was great baby but your mind,
your mind was the night before a revolution."

You were my first,
love, ****, and then love again
and you taught me things
I never thought my mind had the capability of processing.
Yeah, I still hate your ******* ex girl-friends
and your pictures together make my stomach curl,
and if I ever see her out in public that *****...
it doesn't matter,
because I am yours and you are mine
and I am prettier than she is anyways...
****, it doesn't matter
because nothing matters when I am with you
and it's kind of ****** up, in the best way.

I have never felt the loneliness that I do without you,
and I'd like to think that means something special.
You make me write happy poems..
I haven't written a happy poem since I was 9
and I'd like to think that means something special.
I may not be able to dye my hair funky colors,
or pierce my eyebrow
but **** that's just my manic depression talking anyways,
and it's funny because
no matter how much things around me change
or how much I count the days until I fade away.
There's one thing in my mind that stays
and that's the way I feel about you...

We ******-
and it wasn't cute
or tragic like the movies make it out to be.
It was you, and it was me-
and for the first time I felt safe...
No flashbacks or panic attacks,
just your eyes, a little worried
and that's when I kinda knew
I made the right choice
loving you.

The irony,
in simple posts from sea world,
"a whale and her baby,
showing you we care about the bond."
But if you "cared" at all about the bond,
you wouldn't restrict them
to small spaces and four walls,
you would never restrain them
into jail cells in comparison
to their size.
Do you ever wonder why animals rebel?
because the only concern
us humans have is for ourselves
and the most selfish thing
we do, is pretend to care.
Because if we cared,
those whales wouldn't rebel.
if we cared,
those monkey's wouldn't attack.
and if we cared,
we wouldn't spend hundreds
of thousands of dollars
to confine the things
we think we love.

if you love something,
you should let it go
right?
then why do we put
locks and chains
and cages around
the world's beauty
why do we enslave,
for our own personal enjoyment
the things we could just
hop in the car, drive to the land
and probably see ourselves?
this is not humane..

In a nation where we pride ourselves on freedom
all we do, is hold down the things we wish to save..
All we do, is silence the struggling.
All we do, is degrade the different.
So I'm asking, when are things going to change?
When will we stand up for a world
that we deserve to be in.
When will we make like monkeys and whales
and animals held down by circumstance
and bring down what's doing the same to us?

Do not turn a blind eye to the world around you
do not turn your back on things you think you can't control.
I know that the world you carry on your shoulders
weighs heavier on your conscious,
but it doesn't have to.

and it all starts with 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 broke for the seventh time this month-
"why are you so ******* fragile?"
I ask myself as I undress my thoughts in a mirror
as the tears stream steadily down the sides of my face
mascara stains my eyeballs and burns into my mind.
I can feel everything now.
The running of my makeup
causes a chain reaction
to me running toward the sink
to wash out what makes me feel okay.
After it is done-
and the makeup is cleared from my eyes
it seems I still don't see things clearly.
"why are you so ******* fragile?"
I saw him again today-
it seems I am seeing his face in everyone nowadays.
I don't think I'm actually over it
I don't think the experience will ever leave my mind
and every single man but a few seems to have his eyes-
the square shape of his head and the curve of his spine
that I don't think he actually has
because who needs a backbone
when you spend your youth
taking away someone else's.
Mine-
It was the seventh year of my life
and you took my backbone back then
in the black basement, blanketed with self-condemnation.
You see innocence is an antonym for guilt-
but what happens when you took away one
and caused the other?
What does that leave me with now-
Innocence means the opposite of guilt
which is to say childhood and you
do not share the same zip code
but somehow I let you invade my home
and seek out refuge inside my ribcage
now I find you in every corner,
encompassing the outline
of every male figure I encounter.
"why are you so ******* fragile?"
I saw you seven days ago-
in the face of the man at TGI friday's
then again in the face of a man waiting in line at the store
then again in the outline of a shadow
then again in the nightmares I keep waking up to.
"why are you so ******* fragile?"
I keep repeating to myself
until the sound of your voice fades to just background noise
until the soft hint of you breathing on my neck
doesn't seem familiar to me anymore
until I stop feeling ashamed of what you have made of me.

There once was a home inside of me
but now it is just a house fire-
burning down any memory of you here
you made it too hard to breath
although this smoke encases my lungs-
and these pills aren't the blanket
on the fire like I wanted them to be
they still seem to help ease the burns.
See you are nothing but ash and dust-
The lining on the inside of my throat
that keeps me from spilling your name.
Your shadow in the back of my mind
will become nothing
in the wreckage I have ensued upon my skull.
"why are you so ******* fragile?"
Haven't you learned?
The most prized possessions are.

I try to count my breaths again
as my throat begins to close-
my eyes become a shade of haze
that is now so familiar to me.
I try not to break again
keep my feet firmly planted
in a place where I can stand up straight
but these knees are weak
and I keep falling over myself.
The breaths I take become shorter
the senses around me wither in number
and the only thing I hold focus on
is the fact I can't breath anymore.
I want to make it stop
the tightening of my esophagus
and the revenge my stomach
has been plotting against me
for what seems like a while now.
The bile hits my lips
a victim to the toilet-
to the images in my mind
that begin to mimic my every fear.
My head is prison get me out of here-
but all I keep feeling is the lack of oxygen
and all that I see is this morning's breakfast.
Repetition isn't always such a good thing
you can find it in more than just my poetry-
you can find it in my memory.
Hollow me out and put someone else inside
this body holds too much destruction
that I no longer want to be the cause of.
Blueprints have become of me-
etched inside this skin
I seek refuge in.
I have mapped out ways
to make myself feel better
but they're only just an outline.
Just an idea I get before everything
becomes too wrecking ball
and not enough rebuild.
These walls are tainted now
you couldn't keep the spray paint away
and this building is nothing like the blueprints.
I am just the wreckage-
not anything like what comes after.
My structure is flawed
and the only way to fix me
is to destroy and rebuild-
and I've already done most of the destroying.
I take another breath
it feels like my lungs are in need of more
in need of something I can't give to them.
They give me life and I cannot return the favor
so I choke on the guilt of the games my mind plays.
It seems I'm not the only one suffering-
so silence has become my only savior.
Everything is fine on the outside
but the structure is flawed
and it's about to crumble soon.
If I were built right in the first place-
I wouldn't be so easy to break.

the waves wash over me as the momentum of the minute consoles me
but there is no consolation, no consolidation
I am alone with only my irrationality that leads to sedation.
and when I sleep, dreams don't mean a thing
except lucidity and restlessness and trauma of being.  
But being me is more than just waves and sunsets,
sorry to upset, but I am no daisy or garden
I am uneasy eyes, where everyone is a suspect.
So respect my wishes when I tell you no
Because I know, that no never means yes to me
it means satisfaction to some, sorrow to most
and i'm done being buttered up like your morning toast
with that perfect crunch that you finish like it's your last meal..
My smile is my *** appeal.

So slither your tongue with verbs etched with sin,
and i'll let you paint your picture across my skin.
But this is no love poem, or rhyme scheme rendition
this is what satisfaction looks like when it's written
and I've watched myself die inside a mirror
found myself drowning in a ocean much clearer
but the salt kissed my wounds and my bruises
and reminded me, no one ever loses.
Chances are like a fine wine
followed by slow dancing and slowed time.
& I get confused sometimes with the way
you say my name and then sigh.
Don't say you will leave me
Just say you will love me.
Don't say you will touch me
Just say you will trust me.

because i've never known home until i heard your voices tone,
and I condone most things like kissing your insecurities
and falling in love with your tragedy but baby,
there's so much more to me.
I can see only with one eye because in the other i'm half blind,
but i will never turn a blind eye to the tides of your rise
and even your fall but baby, this is my kryptonite
and my light at the end of this dark dingy dim tunnel,
this all so ******* fundamental, the way you make me mental.
I'm so ******* metal.
Hard as ****, and I **** like I'm hard - to love
but I'm easy - like sunday morning  not easy like,
hormonal and *****, you can take my layers of lust and peel-
My smile is my *** appeal.

I wanted to write a poem
but the tips of my fingers
froze on impact and touched nothing
but the memories you left on my skin.
My mind was tainted by the scars
left behind from the prison that is my mind.
I am kind hearted and gentle
but the tragedy that is life
feeds off my mentality
like the waves feed off the wind
And I can't help but feel like
i'm drowning in the chaos
that has invaded my mind
So I turn cold and emotionless.

The soft kisses from your resin stained lips
are the only bliss I have ever known.
Your kind words and gentle nature
the only love i've ever been shown.
Writers remorse is rekindled with tragedy
so what am I supposed to write
when the remorse turns to rebellion
and my heart's fire ignites with a passion
I never knew I possessed.
Nevertheless, I am content
so how are my fingers
going to consent to writing solemnly
when I don't think I have it in me.
I am happy,
and as a writer
that will be the death of me.

I'm intoxicated inside this tragedy,
it weighs in my palms.

paints something timid
and thick like a calligraphy pen.

I try to write the words that keep me sane
and try to rationalize falling in love again.

but can I carry the weight?

will my palms be able to hold onto
both the pen and still maintain the penmanship
or is this dynamic too graphic
too unrelenting
and messy?

who will I become when the ink dries?

will I smudge this pain
onto the mouths of others?

or will my silence
be enough of a concealer-
or will my silence
be but a fashion accessory
that I wear on my wrist.

this fear it has no use for me anymore
it is just taking up space now.

I must find something to make it all worth it
something that looks a bit more pretty.

do I continue to carry this with me
when it is all I have ever known?

or do I learn to let it go?

so I write until the pen runs out of ink
and I seem to run out of stories.

maybe I'll make it out in one piece
or maybe I will make a piece out of it.

either way this is where the fear stops.

somewhere between lost earrings
and the stain of alcohol the next morning-
I have found something.

It's stuck behind my snaggle tooth
and beside the lump in my throat.

it's called salvation
it's called ambition
it's a misnomer that spells out the sound of my own voice
I will spill myself as ink spills on paper
and I will unfold, over and over again.

I will make more than a story out of this malice.

My dad tells me he is proud of me
somehow it makes the knife
he stuck into my back as a child
dig in deep enough to hit a vain-
I cannot feel my backbone anymore.

The animosity I felt towards my father
was always my fuel to this housefire he lit himself
burning all of our confidence down with it.
The resentment was always the extra leg I needed
in order to stand up to other men who shoved me down-
The strong arm I needed so I could push myself
further and further just to prove him wrong
looks like I did.

The house has been rebuilt
with no intention of being burned down
but somehow I'm still waiting for the match to strike,
for the flick of the lighter or the pouring of gasoline.
I'm waiting for everything to go up in flames-

When I get comfortable or consistent
I start to smell the fumes
and before I even have a chance to run away
I am consumed.
It's been too long since I've felt the warmth
starting to like the cold a little too much now.
The worry is worse than the outcome
and the possibility is worse than the actuality.

My dad told me he was proud of me
words I've been waiting to hear since I was four.
Makes me wonder if people actually do change-
makes me wonder if you can too.
Waiting around for the smoke to clear
is something I was never good at
couldn't take the lack of breath.

Loving you is void of the fire
but still breathing in the fumes
I hope it will end soon
but I like the way it tastes.
When it's done and the smoke clears
I can still smell it on my clothes.
A small reminder that I was once
so buried beneath a sheet of insecurity
it kept me from thinking clearly
seeing clearly
and everything just ended up ash.

All we have ever been is ash
a gust of wind away from oblivion.
Burn me down to build me up again.

your critique mimics
the chills down my spinal chord.
I've had an ache for weeks now-
seems there's not enough stretching myself thin
to rid of the pain in my neck now.  
your lips form lashes around my tongue
and it seems I have acid sores
encompassing my lips
because everything you say to me is so toxic.
Your mouth is a battery,
you won't stop running it-
seems it recharges itself.
Seems I cannot throw it away-
it would harm too many others.

Standing in front of you I feel weak,
a version of myself I do not recognize.
Seems I was never strong enough to stand up to you-
so I backed down.
Time and time again
hiding how I feel for your benefit.

It's a shame whenever someone comes around
I wince, afraid you will use your acid tongue
to weather them down
and form rust stains out of their smile.
Most days, I clench my fists
ready to be a shield in their wake.
Most days, that's a mistake.

The high horse
you build your house upon
has grown higher-
you built it that way.
You look down at everything
and bask in the glory of your accomplishments.
The materialistic glow of your youth
shines down upon my face-
but you are not looking at me in awe.
You do not consider me something worthy
of your appreciation.
It seems you think you owe it to yourself
to be nothing less than egotistical,
you grew yourself this way.
Built it from the ground up
so treat it as you wish.

Your way is the only value.
My words are meek inside your muddy waters-
your mindset is clouded again.
I am the rain upon your parade.

Addiction runs in your blood
without something
you fall apart.
All I ever wanted
was for you to be better-
you can never give me that.
You give me a complex instead.

Read this back again,
come back to it and realize
that us women always marry our fathers.
and I can't decide which this poem is about-
I think it's my Father,
but it could also be
every man I have ever loved.

I'm still trying to find love
in between the lines I write
but I only find the past-
the one where love didn't exist
seems it's not enough anyway.
I can't find love
when you show it to my blindside
you don't even care to move in the right direction.
Let me get over-
you.

Remember who you were before they broke you.
As you are picking shards of them out of your skin
not able to see your reflection clearly in the broken glass-
remember yourself.
You are not the pieces they left you with
broken and bleeding for each piece of your broken heart-
You are strong
you will not give them the last pieces you have left
because you are holding out for someone special.
The edges of your fingers are cut from the shards
and you spend your days picking up pieces of yourself
from the bed where they used to lay beside you
and you somehow can't get their smell out of your bedsheets.
Every time you fall asleep the empty space cries for you to fill it
but time and time again you drown it out with tears.
You've spent your days crying oceans for someone
who wouldn't shed a raindrop for you
and the puddle you've made at the edge of your feet
is no longer shallow-
it's still more like a kiddy pool and it's deeper than it once was
and you tell yourself to wake up, stop crying and get a ******* mop!
You keep trying to tell yourself the ends of your fingers
no longer need bandaids
your nose no longer needs shirt sleeves
and those eyes of yours are finally starting to see clearly now
but you see one more shard laying in the puddle you just mopped up
you look and wonder how the ******* got here
how the wreckage in your bones feels more like home
than you ever did with someone else
and you ******* rebuild.
That shard of glass is now your lighthouse
you look down at it and laugh as you pick it up
bandage free fingers you cling to that brokenness
and you look into that glass and finally see yourself for the first time.
You were always a soldier, picking out the broken parts of yourself-
putting them into something else, someone else until you felt whole
but you didn't realize
you were drafted into a war you didn't sign up for-
until it was actually over and you were left with the affects.
But now you have more strength than you did before
and these bones are no longer wreckage, no longer weak.
They are built from muscle memory by tragedy and heartbreak.
So pump the brakes.
Don't be afraid to slow down once in a while
and know that not everything will turn into a wreck-
your world may turn upside down for a while
but that never means you can't learn to enjoy living that way.
So rebuild.

Believe in me.
Take my hand
let me lead you through this life
that has lead you through the depths of hell.
We have felt our fathers wrath of opinion
and been scored by the sharp knife in the back of siblings.
These things shook us both-
took us by the throat and caused us to stop breathing,
Now we feel as if every breath we take could be wrong
every step is in the wrong direction
nothing ever goes our way.
Discouragement is a warm gun,
we sleep with it at night
and wake up from it in the morning.
One thing can shatter our confidence,
the curse of constant critic
has left us conscientious of our conscious.
So let me lead you.
Fighting a war is better if you have an army
and we both have enough strength
to walk through the fire-tongued
judgment day protocol.
I don't want to do it alone.

The way your arm curves into you, and your hands fall over me
shows me you know your worth.
You just need reminding on some days, so do I.
The briskness of your humor glides through your lips
like it has left you exhausted from lack of laughter.
Let me be your lack there of.
Let me be your all of the above.
We don't have to walk through the flames alone,
we don't have to walk through the flames at all.
My saving grace lies within your eyes
and I see it everyday, all the time.
Holding you close to my chest
you are my favorite defense.
The best weapon one can get
is a heart full of love-
and a sword found where you rest.

I feel so broken-
not in the I'm-falling-apart type of way
but more so like I-can't-functionally-normally.
Some people try to fix me
whether it's tightening a ***** that's lose in my head
or making me stand up straighter
and breathe a little deeper,
I always end up in the corner alone
because no one wants something that's broken.
Something that probably could be fixed
if someone tried hard enough
but no one is willing to try hard enough.
I can't fix myself,
because every time I ask
someone to reach out a hand to help me
or maybe just support me so I don't fall apart
they look at my brokenness and realize-
they just don't have the time anymore.
I'm starting to think I am beyond repair
because all I seem to do is fall apart nowadays.
Everyone around me is watching
but they just pretend they don't see.
No one wants to be the blame for my downfall
and I guess they aren't.
I guess it was just the way I was originally constructed
that made me turn out this way
so unable to receive help
so incapable of fixing.
It was just a matter of time before I broke down
and I finally did.
Alone with only these four walls to comfort me
and a shadow that reminds me I'm still here-
still looking as broken as I was when it first started.
There's only a few who come around and repair
what is left of me-
and then all the others just seem to have left me.
They only want me when I appear fixed,
when I am at their beck and call
and they can get good use out of me.
I guess I'll never be kept around
because I'll never actually be fully functional.
Look at all my pieces lying before you-
build me like Ikea furniture
prop me up, wear me down
then throw me away like the rest of them.
I'll be fine here on my own.
My shadow likes to keep me company.