Put the gun to your head Listen to the silence Don't care for heaven or **** Have a smile on your face Keep your tongue in its place And have a tale to tell Of the burning of your soul So that the heavens shake For time has come to make The departure to the other side
my first crush committed suicide. i remember the hurt at a young age from chasing him around his living room begging him for a kiss. from my young age i knew i wanted him in my life forever. through his weaves and gagging running around the furniture and up the stairs, losing him sounded foreign then and having lost him now, still feels the same. our fathers drank and our mothers giggled born three months apart our future planned together both saying "i do" uniting us all together. life flew on by us both fighting with ourselves and downing the bottles underneath the bed loaded and silenced family portraits painted in red long life memories all put to rest. only one made it out alive but it's hard to breathe out of us how was it me and you in a little box where a diamond ring should be. my mind keeps wondering when will i stop chasing you then my heart replays every time you turned a corner you looked over your shoulder and how you smiled at me.
the things you always joke about they hurt but im not leaving you the way you talk to me when you get angry it hurts but im not leaving you the way you change completely when i bring up a friend of mine who's a guy it scares and hurts me you joke about how "im on this guys ****" or some immature **** it hurts cause you know i wouldn't do that to you but i wont leave cause you're still the boy i met just a few months back but now all your sweet words sound so full with ****, no love i can ever so slightly hear a drop of love, scattered in between the "i love you" and the "im sorry baby" and all the in between i love you and im not leaving you . . . not yet
A friend asked me how to be a writer. I wanted to say, lock yourself in a room, scream until you have a poem and no voice. Open your veins and bleed until you know that your bones are pure words and sorrow. Act as if you slit your own throat and all you can bleed are your own regrets and all of the darkness you boxed up for inspiration. Write your mom a letter, tell her you're leaving and you won't be back for awhile Because being a writer is traveling through all seven layers of **** and denying anything is wrong. Forget loving yourself when all you have is a pen and paper fused to your wrist and Jesus is tapping at your skull saying turn back now. Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning It's just your soul clawing at the front door trying to get in. Learn how to be alone. Learn how to lose everything you have in order to feel release, learn how to only feel deceased from now on. A friend asked me how to be a writer. All I said was don't
Maybe it's the way you look at me, Maybe it's the way you hold me, Maybe it's the way you care for me, Maybe it's the way you talk to me, Maybe it's the way you understand me, Maybe it's the way we joke around, Maybe it's the way we love, Maybe all it is Is you.