Your death was an easy escape.
You drank the depths of your despair
And drowned.
Not brave enough to be called suicide,
Doubt you even intended to die.
I care little.
Though so did you it seemed -
Not only for yourself
But for the lives in your hands
Of strangers and your own creations.
Depressed they said,
drugged up;
My sympathies
Have boundaries.

You latched onto innocent bystanders,
Tied ropes to their legs and locked them to yours.
A lead weight,
As you drifted to your demise.
Your lungs went dry and your eyes went blind,
Never to face
The consequence
Of all you left behind.
You did not watch as they struggled to stay afloat,
But I,
With my pure and petrified eyes,
I watched as they almost drowned.
Pulled down with your worthless body,
Helpless to set them free.
My hands were too tiny to untie ropes that you burned into skin.

The hate runs deep in the water,
and the ripples are forever carved in cement,
So how can you be granted forgiveness
When you’re not even here to repent?
What you did was ******.
You stole lives,
And left lives,
Now forever tied
To the weight of your careless mistakes.

Every artist has dabbled here and there with everything from
Making your own artificial clouds into the night sky
Letting tabs of lysergic acid diethyl amide melt onto your tongue
There are those who not only put pen to paper
But put needle to skin
There are those born with ideas, and those who sniff them up with rolled up dollar bills
And there are theses who’s best thoughts come from nose bleeds and a heart rate of 150 bpm
There are those who lay putting all effort into form misshapen words on a blank canvas
and there are people over medicating falsified illnesses with the contents of yellow little bottles
There are those who drown themselves in self apathy, and agony

do not date a girl
who writes.
she will internalize
everything,
carve poems
into your eyelashes
instead of
kissing them,

she will analyze you,
calculate age
from the rings
your coffee cup
leaves
instead of refilling it.

she will memorize
the way your
lips curl around steam,
but not that you
take it
two sugars,
no cream.

she will read your
palm instead of
holding it
against her chest.

she will not
blink
when you leave,
because she is
already
romanticizing it.

Actions canvas the swollen brain,
soul gets lost, ashes remain.
The needles ***** every
inch of the deserted heart,
with them I embroider
my words on a satin cloth
stained in bright red.
The words seem to
disperse away from
your sensation and only
red remains.
Intoxicated in insomnia
I brave another needle *****
as those words may disperse
from the stained satin cloth
but shall be firmly etched
as ideals in this vibrating heart.

Even after all this time
You're still stained on my hands
Lining every crease
Embedded in my nails

I've tried to rid myself of you
Scrubbed my hands raw
Leaving pink and cracked skin
But your residue remains

I won't stop scrubbing till you're gone
Because God forbid
I accidentally stain someone else
With traces of *you

Satan plays the violin; the same shape and tone as mine.
The devil passes time in Hell by playing fiddle,
and if I had to guess; I think that's the reason why
he knows the answer to life's riddle,
because its trilling's the only feeling filling
enough to get away with that beautiful lie.
It drowns the screams of the ****** that died;
                                                                ­          and briefly
                                                         ­                     tells us we are still alive.