I knew a girl who used poetry as a weapon.
Who broke hearts for fun, only to dip her pen in their blood and write lines in the sand.

I knew a girl who used poetry as a shield.
Who thought her words were justified if she dipped them in honey before she spoke.

I knew a girl who used poetry as a blindfold.
Who hid her betrayal behind selfless lines and artful lies.

And she called me her muse and I thought it a compliment when really it was a curse.
Because I knew a girl who only wrote poetry about broken hearts so she let me fall so she could watch me drop and describe the sound of my impact with honey-coated drizzle.

Because it’s my heart that was pen-dipped.
My ears that were darkened by honey-covered lies.
My eyes that were obscured by a blindfold of silk.

And when my blood dried and the sand was used up, she went for another boy.
A broken boy.

One she didn’t have to break to write her twisted lines.

For while you grant me the strength to live, and the resolve to thrive,
While you grant me the loyalty of the most loving companion,
While your kindness draws the eyes of strangers and the hearts of the bitter,
And while you have pledged all of this to me, in an act of love I can never hope to see again, I must depart.

Because for all your virtues, you could never see that your flaw was me.

Rusty axe in hand, cold air on the face
Holding down with a single damp hand
Recoiled in place
Slammed down with a thud and a crack
Another in rapid succession
And then another still in a dark progression
Pain racks the mind, disgust sights the eyes

The twilight moon covered by clouds
Refusing to witness what has transpired
Mind dulled, and heart torn
Eyes front, recoil once more
With a final throw a shatter rings out
The land convulses, the wind cries out
Something beautiful is thrown throughout

It was a cold dark night when it came to pass
That from out of the dark and into the light
I shattered my soul to keep you alight

My mind is a pin spinning on its head.
Round it spins and round it goes. 
Left alone it would spin forever, left alone it would be content.

But the world is cruel and nothing is ever alone. And so it wobbles at the breeze and it wobbles when blown and it wobbles sometimes by it’s own to-and-fro. It wobbles, and wobbles, it looks like it may just fall. Topple over and spin no more. But it never does, it always comes back. It always recovers. It always wobbles back.
And it keeps on spinning, round and round it goes.

My mind is a pin spinning on its head.
Maybe this breeze will be the one to push it over the edge.