As I walk on the downtown street
I stop to hear this stranger play
He strums the guitar
And his lyrics ******* away
You can hear his pain in every word
I’m hearing his life story standing on this curb
He’s a homeless man just trying to survive through music
I can’t believe I’m hearing such a masterpiece of acoustics
I sit there and listen to the entire song
I hand him a few dollars and walk on
I’ll never forget hearing such a wonderful song

If our love was a painting...it would include laughter and dancing, joy, and glances that prove what we have is real. It would include magic and uncontrollable smiles, giggling and getting lost in your eyes. It would consist of running in the rain and singing in the shower. It would be filled with squeals from my friends and the sound of your heartbeat. The feeling of your tender hands as they meet with mine. The tickle of your butterfly kisses and the wonderful fragrance you give off. It would consist of the feeling of your smile in our kiss, and the warmth and safety in your hugs. Feeling like your spinning and staying up all night wishing I was with you. The love letters I reread over and over...and the sound of your voice. If our love was a painting, it would be beautiful.

The old man
cutting barley--
bent like a sickle.

Like a beer can crushed on a boozed up frat boys head,
It hurt
Even though I said it didn’t
Even though I pretend I’m invincible
Even though you all think I’ve mastered this
I haven’t
It hurt
Like a teeny tiny paper cut from a loose leaf sheet it paper,
It burns
Even though you can’t see the scar
Even though it happens to people every day
Even though I didn’t even know it happened until it was over
It wasn’t over for me
It burns
Like the eyes of an innocent bystander the first day of pollen season
It stings
Even though I’m used to the pain
Even though I should have seen it coming
Even though I’ve been taught how to prevent it
I let it slip my mind
It stings

I am a stubborn creature
I do not learn well from others mistakes
I guess hindsight really is a *****.

The slick click of her tongue
sliding away from the roof of her mouth
as she opens her red stained lips,
and pops the tablet past them.
The faucet runs, currently the only noise in the house
and she fills a little paper cup,
listens to the dribble as the water slowly fills it
the pill is becoming sour in her mouth.
She raises the cup, faucet still running,
to her lips and quickly knocks the medication down her throat,
shivers as it grazes against the muscle there.
The water follows soothingly after it,
and she takes another swig for good measure,
then another to wash the taste out of her mouth.
She spits it out, and looks at herself in the mirror.
her hair is sticking up all over the back of her head.
she hasn’t had it cut in months,
hasn’t washed it in days.
She’s vaguely starting to resemble her father and wonders
“Is this what death looks like?”
She has no idea.
The coroner wouldn’t let her see the body.

trickling up the spine
slipping down the throat
consumed like sweet candy
when really a suicide note

unaware of its power
unaware of the threat
it is misunderstood and ignored
its meaning never met

swimming in the stomach
burning through the mind
pulling at the ovaries
its the only of its kind

shredding through like paper
bleeding past like wine
the lost are now forgotten
the lost are now mine

the beauty of youth melts
it doesn't break and it doesn't shed
it leaves hot wax down your spine
and molds to your form

its there to remind you of what you're missing
like a second layer
invisible to others
but like a hollywood sign to your eyes

it mocks you with its crisp fresh eyes
it laughs at you with its plump lips
it points at you with manicured fingernails
and haunts you with every light step

it will be there forever
like a bad bar of soap
you will try to scrub and tare at it
but its yours, its yours