The poems you don't read
Are the poems I don't write.
The wandering thoughts and puzzle
Pieces that are never found or placed.
The urge to scream,
Or blend into a puddle of melted candy.

I know what you like.
You enjoy the colour pink and sound of pianos and feeling sad.
But the good kind of sad.

I know what you need.
You need to love yourself.
Or at least like yourself.
You need to breathe and create.
You need to dance and breathe.
Please.
Just.
Breathe.

The poems I don't type aren't raw
Or artsy or beautiful or ugly.
They are scared and lonely and everything that I can't put into words.

The poems I don't write are simultaneously the best and the worst.
I don't understand them and it terrifies me.
That's why I don't write them.

I am filled with blood and guts.
Nothing more,
maybe less.

Peel off your skin.
Look at you.
Your mind is gushing from every vein, every slit.
Your fears are being milked from the exposed flesh.

This is you, my friend.
You have been disfigured and morphed into something you don't recognize.
Scabs are cracked open to reveal secrets only you could be selfish enough to cover.

Your blood drips off the tip of your nose at a steady pace;
As you, my friend, watch your face melt into a sink.
You are disgusting but this is you, and
You
Are
Alive.

Friend, you are perfectly honest;
No carbon copies made.
You let yourself bleed and flood this house,
Because that's all you've ever wanted.
You've finally escaped the cage of bones and skin that silenced you.

You alive and you are free.