Poetry is for the bruised and scared we spill our guts onto paper and pen our minds explode emotions for us to write in words

Writing is a coping mechanism and even though we might not save ourselves we keep on opening our hearts with words

Never stop giving pieces of yourself to the world nor stop taking pieces to replace the empty spaces with new found words

Charlie was my friend, he was a chef
Then packed everything in to play saxaphone
When he played the universe stopped to listen
But ****** was claiming him, this he overthrew
In favour of wine

One day on a beaten track I found him sleeping
A woman had told me to beware the *****
She stood at the top to watch me walk past
So that I'd be safe.
I saw my friend and sat down, we smoked a smoke
Talked of old times
Fields on either side and the woman
Stood in amazement until I waved to say it was all alright

One night I was sleeping and woke in the dark
Charlie was saying "Wake up wake up"
The wind was howling outside
He took hold of my shoulders and shook me awake
I said
"******* Charlie, I'm trying to sleep"
Turned over and closed my eyes.

I found out a few days later
He'd died that night
In another place far from me
Of a final old times shot

we get it, poets. things are like other things.
this is a familiar concept to us all so why do we speak in metaphor all the time?

it is because when we tell you we feel like our insides are on fire,
we feel as though we are a house that is burning down until all that remains is a fragile frame accompanied by a pile of ash,
it is not a metaphor

it's a simile, notice my use of like or as

but it is not a metaphor

when you stick a cigarette between your teeth you do not fail to light it
the thing that does the killing will **** you
and you will let it

when you write down the exact amount of pills you took and the number of days you felt worthless tallied into your stretch marks
there is no metaphor there

my poetry isn't metaphor
it is a direct reflection of honest to god feelings
I have never written a poem not meant literally

we get it, poets. things are like other things.
but that is a simile.
things are not other things.
we do not speak in metaphor.

i camped out all night
just to catch sight
of your morning yawn
calling on the break of dawn
do not think i did not see
the moons reluctancy to leave
or the suns lustrous grin
at your appeased skin
if i asked your name
would you push me away
to be your friend, i aim
i will wait forever and a day
oh, please tell me your name
my thoughts exclaim

You're a ticking time bomb with a tight grip on my arm
We sunk down into the deepest end of the ocean
It's only seconds until we blow up
I can't breathe
And your eyes look like they're falling asleep
Two different creatures finding the nothingness at the bottom of the ocean
In the silence of the water, we will perish
And the rest of the world will hear nothing