With every dawn that rises
I find myself
suspended in normality,
scrambling to scavenge some sort
of beauty in the bleakness.

My own past, passes me by.
those who were once called lovers
all love another,
(someone who had always been
desperate to reach the foreground)

So many times have I wished
that I could split myself-
send each piece sailing into the sky
and see which road leads me to destiny.

But- I am whole.
with this, I must decide upon a single path-
accept normalitys cold, clammy palms
gripping my thighs, holding my waist.

The only reason we feel
a way towards something
is because we've been trained to.
it is valid for flowers to be putrid,
and hell to be heavenly,
if we so wish it to be.
the most twisted of things in your mind,
lie in my own morning routine.

You've never met a wanderer like me.

Countless pathways and I remain
barefoot and bleeding along the same trail,
knowing **** well it will **** me;
glass hidden between pebbles,
ghosts kissing my heels,
my own self, blind to the foreground.

I don't know how
To tell you why
The days move slow
And so do I
Drawn out in your parlor
I am drunk off a memory
I am drink off the thought of putting my fist straight through your head
I can't forget any word of what you said
Honest open I showed you my world and you promised
You promised
But I'm the one you wanted to fill the void no I'm not the one you needed
I was your toy
And the date is set
The bed is made
Your heart is set
And I shouldn't have stayed this long
I'm just too busy picturing a 1000 forms of revenge
While you're too busy talking about the lines of your new dress
Spinning twirling the focus of the party
You talk over me and I sit complacently ready to tear you apart
You took root in my heart and walked away time after time after time
But the difference is that I'm big enough to recognize what fault is mine
So I'm seasick listening to the harrowing details of your relationship with god
All your devoted disciples sit at your feet so isn't it odd that
My fingernails are digging into the inside of my palms
Isnt it strange that
I'm acting like something is wrong
But as you continue to spit **** to all our mutual friends at somebody else's birthday party
I've decided that I will let you have no part of me
And so it's 2am and I'm coming clean in your doorway
I'm a mess of track marks and contraditctions but all I can say is
You're not my fix
No you're not my fix anymore
You're not my fix
I'm not your girl anymore
The date is set but I'm not coming around
No I'm not coming around anymore.

If I'm being honest
I'm tired of being a poet.
I'm tired of findig meaning in everything from the lines of the sky to the cracks in the side walk
I'm tired of using extended metaphors to explain how overwhelmed or angry or sad I am 
I'm tired of immortalizing the people I love or hate in half assed lines of poetry
For once I would like a good day just to be a good day or a bad day just to be a bad day
A landscape to hold no higher meaning than to magnify the glory of existence
For the people I know to hold no cosmic significance in the fabric of time
I would like to sit and be quiet
To write and be at peace
For the storm to pass over
And to find some relief
This is not a game for me this is how I breathe and I am tired of having to hold meaning in every crack and every crevice
My poetic nature has become a menice in my tired skin
I'm tired of letting the light in
But this isn't something you quit
This is something you breathe
This is something you are
This is something you need
Even if it doesn't make sense all the time
This is the one true thing I know that's mine
My sense of rhythm and my sense of rhyme
And it isn't easy all the time
Because these days life moves faster than I've even known
Faster than I can process what I've been shown
These days it's easy to feel the weight of all of my time spent alone
My mind isn't home
I'm chilled to the bone
These days I'm tired of being tired and tired of writing about how tired I am
Like I'm six feet under but I'm not yet dead
Using poetic devices to say what's already been said
I'm tired of playing this game
Imortalizing name after name
I still feel the same
Even though I still keep writing
So what I'm trying to say is that I need poetry like I need water but sometimes if you drink too fast or you drink too deep you feel like you're drowning
Out to sea in familiar surroundings
It's astounding how tiring being a poet can be.

Sometimes, I dream about the ocean

How the currents pull me under and I’m left gasping for air

Only to ingest the salt water poison that is my love.

I reach the ocean floor.

There’s a gap, a crack that leads downwards

A never-ending whirlpool swoops me in, and there is no escape

You see, I am convinced, that this dream started when I was drowning in my tears

Fighting, like the only way to keep you is to reach the surface,

Sinking, my love knows no depths, and I keep spiraling down

Always loving people who will never love me back

Probably, because I am so broken, and ****** up, that I was never supposed to reach these depths to begin with

I was supposed to drown, but I fell in love instead.

My type is the person who will hurt me

Who has never known love like I have

Who can never fight for me because they’ll only end up drowning themselves

I will never be the first person to leave, I never learned how.

I forgive too easily; the salt has scraped away my ability to differentiate between honest mistakes and abuse.

I’d like to say that I love unconditionally, but the truth is I love recklessly

But I will never apologize, and because I’m always the one getting my heart broken, it means I never have to.

I may be the one to always love more, but it has allowed me to see the depths of something, so beautiful, something so magical it pulls me under.

You may think I’m drowning, but salt water is an acquired taste.

recycling trouble from the past in hopes you'll make time go fast for your slow hourglass
shake the sand, gravitate towards the new plan

pave the ground, it won't be so bumpy now

we tossed the nails to the side, just don't forget the part where you drive
a rock or two will make you swerve, but ruthless words will be there to serve
gas is ready, handy and steady waiting to be levied
the price goes up but our strive runs slow

I often find myself wishing the best for everyone *except myself