what if one day
the truth finally comes out?
for every lie uttered
from every
man's
woman's
boy's
girl's
lips,
there is one truth.
we see past all the facades on this day,
and see inside their souls.
we see
we feel
we know
the truth.
the lies
(the cheap disguise)
is finally gone.
some will laugh
some will cry
and the world will be destroyed.

my words fumble
and trip over one another
screaming on the way down.

Dried tears
stick permanently to pale faces
too old for her years
her eyes stay wide so she notices
everything.

But she's sleepy
she wants to slither underneath
away from all this weeping
her arms ache from holding up
everything.

She begs for release
jams words in to her ears
but the poisoned snaps don't cease
she is tired of dealing with
everything.

Use rusty scissors
to cut open your skin.
That skin bag is too hot,
too constricting.

But once you step out of your flesh
you feel coldness seep in to your bones.
You are a skeleton.
A dancing skeleton.

Twirl, dip, bow.
Dance your way across the stones
and in to hearts
that now miss you, strangely.

They call for you
but you ignore them.
The twirling skeleton keeps on twirling.
It twirls in to its own world.

ink smudges stain
my callused
fingertips.

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
.

You pick up your needles
and knit together your lies
you make a scarf
of all different feelings
blue, red, green, yellow
beautiful
but that doesn't mean
i don't hate it.
You drape it around my neck
wounding it around and around
tight, tighter, too tight
i choke back my words
i now look beautiful
but that doesn't mean
i don't hate you.

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

and if I told you
that I did not want to live anymore
automatically you would start talking
saying stupid things like
"it'll get better!"
"you have a future!!"
"maybe we should up your medication!!!"

but if I told you
that I did not want to live anymore
you would be all talk, no help
you would not wake me up at dawn
and take me to watch the sun rise
you would not let me throw red paint at a white wall
you would not bake me cookies with extra chocolate chips
you would not read me my favorite book
you would not write me a stupid poem
or crack a stupid knock knock joke
you would not cuddle with me under 3 blankets
or whisper to me at 3 am

only words
that had lost their meaning
once they were repeated
more than three times.

and it's moments like these
when I'm all alone
at 2:42 p.m.
with the fire stuck in the sky
illuminating my cluttered desk
when I realize
that no one
(truly)
knows who I am.
no one has ever
shaved away the many layers of skin
covering my
(real)
heart
because maybe no one
(truly)
cares.

the reason why
some people hate poetry
is because we tell the  t
                                         r
                                             u
                                                  t
                                                      h

which is what they most fear.

the metal was cool
and numbed his fingertips
luckily he was still able to
pull the trigger.

their eyes carve letters in to my back, spelling out words that will break me.

my words are a way to scrape my insides
and bleach them clean
without the foul odors.

broken pieces
shattered limbs
crushed glass heart
                                                                  frayed with cracks
                                                              and misunderstandings
                                                                  and the empty space
                                                             between my hollow ribs.

she paints the sunrise
at 2 a.m.
when all is dark.
the colors
will forever remain
blazing in her memory.
— dreamer

while I was unconscious
on the operating table
dressed in white
stained in red
I had a vision
of a little girl
crying darkened tears
with an expression so pained
that I wanted to hold her hand
between my blue ones
and cry with her
mingling our tears
until we were one.

I placed a piece of broken glass

on your ******, scabbed tongue

and made you swallow it.

he crams pills down his throat
two of them
every night
just so "he won't feel the pain"
even though he wants to hurt himself

m o r e  t h a n  e v e r.

but I will miss
writing
in the afterlife.

it was the only way
I could slice open my veins
and bleed out my words
without making a mess.

I am your canvas,
your lips are the brush.
decorate me with bruises
the colors of the universe.

we keep them in cardboard boxes
old and frayed
with holes poked in the sides
so the gut wrenching wisps of
a flashback
can sneak out
and attack us
in the middle of the night

the words are so hard, that they chip my teeth
they feel unnatural on my swollen pink tongue
there are too many, that all want to come out at once
so I choke on them, saliva rushing out past my gums
my lips split and blood gushes down my chin
leaving rust marks on the pale milky skin.

poetry should be about

flowers

not about

the tears that never stop.

words
are the blood
in my thin
yet bulging
                              veins.

he wasn’t in love with me.
he just wanted a broken toy to fix.
— the truth

he crumbled me
in his callused palms
and just
threw
me
away.
— he made it seem so easy

my ankles are chafed
and stained with red
you look me in the eye
and rub dirt in to my wounds.