I can smell it.
Like the musty wind before the devastating hurricane, I can smell it.
I can smell the sadness and the tears from late night musings.
I knew the entire thing is doomed from the beginning.
But like a fool who's used to believing, I held on.
It was too slippery.
I lost my grip.

worship me at 3am only to repent at dawn
make 'i love you' sound like a hymn
whisper my name as if my body's a cathedral and you're in the confessional
let my lips carry the weight of your sins
you told me you weren't religious outside of my bed
so let me be your goddess and guide you to paradise
relish in my garden of eden, where no fruit is forbidden
drink from my fountain of life, for you are mine

The terrible thing about poets is we're all sadistic masochists.
We all want to read about heartache, and we all want to write about the demons that haunt us in our worst hours.
We never talk about our happiness, our productive days and nights where we slept enough.
We drown in each other's depression so nicely, a swimming pool of lonely writers, ink pooling around us each because we always carry pens in our pockets.
No one wants to know how happy we are. How our boring mundane human life of doing dishes and vacuuming the carpet went.
We all want to stick the knives in a little deeper, to draw out a little more of each other's blood. Because honestly, our poetry has always been written in blood, sweat, and tears.
That's the thing about poets. We'd rather be miserable and have something to write about than be happy and have nothing to write about.

It's been one year
since you took your
last breaths,
and I can't stop wishing
you had gotten more time.
You deserved prom dates,
and a high school graduation,
slow kisses in the rain,
and falling in love.

And if I could trade
places with you,
believe me, I would.
Because you deserved a life
far beyond hospital beds
and breathing tubes.

I so desperately wish
you had gotten the life
you fought so hard for.

-k.w//One Year

"Loving her was like shaking hands with the devil. "
Loving her was a soft suicide.

A bottle of pills and a warm bath,
candles lit around your head like a glowing halo.

Loving her was a steady shock.

A fork in an outlet and a buzzing in your spine.
Loving her was the agony of a quick snap of a bone.
The long ride to the emergency room,
listening to music you never liked.
Especially not now.

Watching her leave was almost worse.

Almost better.

It was the swift pain of a steel toed boot in the
soft part of your stomach.
The gasp of the crowd in the busy bar.
The realization no one was going to step in and help.

Yes, loving her was surely relentless, inevitable pain.

So you turned into a person who kissed feet and
fell to their knees.
Bandaged yourself up and then asked to bleed a little more.
And the truth is..

You almost liked it.

Isn't it ironic,
how we tell others to stay strong,
yet we cant do it ourselves?
Everyone seems to think
I am the “master” at
solving problems but,
I can't even figure out
how to solve my own…