Hands: Full on frontal meat globs with sausage fingers.
Hand: Soggy paper cliche of what is too come.
Handed: The part of the poem where a simple 'touch' burns.

It's another draw of the cigarette, another sip of kidney failure
Oh, My Bad. That's something insulting.
Another sip of alcohol.
Another reason for blame.
Another for actions.
Another for...

Hands: Full frontal meat glob for the service of grabbing
Hand: Soggy paper cliche for letting go
Handed: The part where you try to say no

Things are better in Cliche's

Another drowning year, another nameless day.

Formats of cards, wishing stars and fake teddy bears.

Short sayings, with a signed name.

Gifts not wrapped, with envelopes of money.

On this day, early in the morning.

A small baby cried, for a mother who was too high to breastfeed.

Stuck in the hospital until weened off of the drug, the sickening beast that hunts.

No party, just small groups that fan out and soon disappear.

Happy birthday, too me.

Coughing until your throat runs dry.
That's when you realize that every thing was a lie.
Not wanting to believe you sneeze until you bleed.
Not knowing your bleeding you lay.
As you lay your head aches.
As aches take over your body your mind goes blank.
With your mind blank your body freezes to the sheets.
Frozen to the sheets you realize what you have.
Nothing but a simple common cold.

I don't know how to damage this one just yet.
I almost want to keep it clean.
temptation controls me like a controller.
Grabbing the pencil so lightly, afraid that its going to break.
Grasping it tightly.
I look at the clean pages.
There feel, touch, smell so innocent from the pencils led.
My hands shaking I put the led to the blank page.
Waiting, watching, hoping to see the page full of nonsense letters and word that mean nothing.
The journal was was already damaged when I touched it.
My head exploded with ideas not letting my thoughts come peacefully.
There charging, racing, stomping to get free.
When the pencil touches the paper all the thoughts run with fear.
Now am left with nothing but an empty page with so many ideas at the tip of the pencil.
With nothing I stare blank at the page hoping, waiting, wondering whats to come next.
In the damage journal nothing will come but useless letters and words.

Who are you to say why I lay awake?
Who am I to confess my dreams?
Do not push this upon me, the sunrise is already too much for my weakened mind.

Diseased with another night's restless fighting, no need to remind me of what had happened.
Let me sleep another peaceful empty way, one I know how to work out.
Shutting my eyes tight begging for relief while my hips move with their own heartbeat.

Who are you to judge how I fall asleep?
Who am I to say that it's anything unnatural?
Feeling thrown out to dry in the sun, branded as if we were breeding cattle.

Freed for a moment from the torment that chases me, relief just fingertips away.
A brief moment of solidarity in the life of balancing on the dancing edge of insanity, grounding me not to the earth simply but, to myself as well.
Humanly humble actions bring pains of pleasure and the guilt of social standings along with it.

The Last poem I posted was of May 2013, four years ago.
Four years ago.
How long?
How much?
I'm certain I have more then what's wrote down, endless thoughtless thought.
Another trash dump for broken Idea's

Nothing really change's, or that's the cliche everyone is looking for. Isn't it?
Don't deny that all of our guilty pleasure's on rainy days, countless of 'hipster' playlists to keep us occupied with a simple small cliche poem at our fingertips. See what I did there?

Everything change's, me and you. Me and the cliche's

Counting on people is probably one of the worst things you could ever do.
Puting your hopes and dreams all on one person hoping that they will be there one day.
Telling your secrets to them hoping they wont tell anyone.
Hoping they will be there for you forever or as long as they can.
But right as you need them.
They turn around and walk away saying there tired of all your winning.
Humans are monsters.
Making you believe that you can trust them and that they will be there for you.
In reality they just love making people fall so they can climb higher.

I lie.
To everyone.
Every single day.
Telling them I'm ok.

I'm sorry for trying.
I'm sorry for standing up for what I believe in.
I'm sorry for breathing, talking, writing, listening, wondering and for being happy.
I'm sorry that you don't understand that you don't need objects to be happy.
I'm sorry that you don't understand that you don't need loving parents to be happy.
I'm sorry that you don't understand that you don't need a house to be happy.
I wish I could teach you to be happy but, happy cant be taught.
You have to find happy to feel it.
I'm sorry that you don't understand how I can be so happy even when am left with nothing.

Judge me by my cover.
Because you will never know my story.

Almost every day i feel alone.
No one knows what has happened
No one knows what Ive been through.
Even though i can tell them every thing, they don't understand.
There willing to help, they say there sorry's but
I feel as though the loneliness brings with it masks of smiles.
When all in truth i stand alone with blank faces turned away
I Pick up my masks and be on my way.
but some where deep down inside i know am not alone people surround
me with love and happiness.
I try to join into the fun but the loneliness drags me down.
I walk alone to a empty house.
And almost every day i feel alone.

The perfect person is someone who excepts everyone for who they are.

Jealousy is **** a sick thing.
Waiting, watching in the pit of your stomach until someone is better then you but, that's not the sickness of jealousy.
The sickness is that soon every one is better then you.
Then jealousy will take your life.

Silently weeping tears run cold.
By myself in this empty house.
No one to hear my whimpers and cry's.
By myself I have no one to relay on.
Trying to call but no one answered.
I'm left here with nothing but the echos of my tears as they hit the ground.
Silently weeping.
Were tears run cold.
In this empty house.
Is were I lose all hope.
Slipping away with the razor in my hand.
Were the floors are stained red.
Silently weeping hoping someone saves me before I end

There once was a girl pretty as can be and had a perfect family.
There once was a girl who was sweet her family in ruins never going to meet
At school she weep trying not to make a pep.
The pretty girl laughed along, Pointed and spitted, growled and snapped.
The pretty girl had a pretty long laugh.
The sweet girl all crumbled and ruined, begged and groveled for it to stop.
The sweet girl got hell she soon turned sour and ended up in different places.
White roses of forgiveness lay upon her grave as the sweet girl rotted away.
The pretty girl didn't know what to do but party and live her life like she was going to do.
They fill no regret and the sweet girl never got better.
No one spoke.
No one saw.
The sweet girl fall.
Her family back together to shed tears.
Someone stands up who they haven’t heard.
" I am the pretty girl" Said a voice “ I caused this girl to die and i sit here and sigh. I do not care I think it’s better without her plus she was ugly as can be and i glow of pretty. I am the one who needs the attention that's why i do such terrible things. The world should revolve around me."
The room fell silent as no one spoke.
A small little girl stood up. "I am the nerd. Smart as can be. I stand against you for everything you see. You tortured and hit you spat and you kicked but the guilt is still there. You killed a girl with only words. Don't you care?"
The rooms filled with rumors of such the brave girl.
Cant you see that all we need is someone like you Short, fat, skinny, tall, nerdy, freaky, different and all. to stand up.
to speak out.
Let no one stand out.
You could save someone just by a simple hello ask how there doing and let the friendship grow.

What's the meaning to being perfect.
when perfect isn't even real.