We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.


We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.

sad, sleepless, lonely nights are not my friend.
I suppose putting the painful thoughts on paper could do wonders for my mind,
but no poem can make my demons disappear.
sadness comes in waves, and if I don't get thrown a life vest soon,
the waves will swallow me whole, pulling me under piece by piece until I'm nothing of a shell of a human body who once could fake a smile.
making a pen bleed out my words is better than a blade bleeding them from my wrist,
but the thought still consumes me.
I'm terrified that one of these days the blade will grab hold of me
and there won't be any turning back. one of these days,
the blade won't just trace my skin in a desperate attempt for crimson,
it will dig in
and I'll just be another scar.