your throat closes up, making you
c h o k e
on your own words, your own shouts for help
nothing but tight lips and squinted eyes
portray any amount of emotions on your face
you want to screech, to tell someone to
h e l p   m e   I   n e e d   y o u
but no words
no squeaks
no whispers
escape past your hard teeth
finally
all alone
you begin to sOB

poetry should be about

flowers

not about

the tears that never stop.

I repeat it
like an incantation

"I hate myself I hate myself I hatemyselfIhatemyselfIhatemyself-"

until the words blur
and so does my vision
the world is a smeared pencil mark
covered in a veil of darkness
that matches my mood
and my terrible thoughts.

Poetry has become my self harm,
I only write at my lows...
Instead of blood I see words,
Instead of a blade I have a keyboard...

I want to write about...
The wind dancing with the sea...
Or...
The way you smile and it lights up your innocent face...

I don't want poetry to be my self harm,
Because poetry is beautiful...
An art...
Not.
Just.
Blood.
And.
Scars.

the tears
are the worst part
of depression.

the choking
the little sobs that sneak out
making you feel         p a t h e t i c .

you wipe your eyes
rubbing them raw
and wait for them to stop leaking.

though
it
takes
a
while
.

the day you died,
was also the day
that I died.
the only difference is
that you're six feet underground
and I'm a ghost
trapped in an ugly shell.

I put a gun up to my head, if only to be with you.