This will not be a flowery prose
Wrapped in an imaginary love heart
This will be my new beginning
Writing this will be a start

This is not a love story
That people love to hate
There is just the start and then the end
In between does not even rate

This is not where I will beg
With flowery words of love forgotten
This is where I’ll say to you
To me, all we had now smells rotten

This will never be a love sonnet
Whispered through the sands of time
But to me, as I remember all to be
It will remind me of you, you slime!

This is not a love poem
No longer even a love song
The bitterness of my tears
Have dragged on far too long

This is not the happy ending
I dreamed of to be true, so
This is where you kiss my ***
While assuming I’ll pine for you

I wanted to write a poem about flowers, so that's what I did.
It was short, expressed how I feel, and cut like glass.
I showed my father "Flowers" and he thought it was mediocre.
And I said, "No, "Mediocre" is the poem where I talk about dying,
and I'm trying to stay alive, so I wrote about flowers."

Flowers strangling soil plots with their roots, with their existence.
And to hurt something you love with your existence is a terrible feeling.

To these words please listen close,
The fairytale's not true,
An ugly duckling you never were,
You're a swan who never flew,
For your wings of brilliant white,
Wild dogs have torn apart,
They sought and they succeeded,
In stalling your depart,
Too many years upon the ground,
It's not your natural place,
Amongst the bottom feeders,
Who lack your style, your grace,
But sometimes baby fate is kind,
Sometimes gods they care,
For here I am carrying love,
And tools for wing repair,
So if I can I'll mend your woes,
With string and superglue,
And when you spread your wings and fly,
I'll hitch a ride with you.

from the wisdom of an old woman
who had a sick husband shot in the chest
five centimeters to the east
so close to the heart, he even survived
The Second World War
had seven children
and a good but short life.

old face sunburned  and sweaty,
old soul full of memories that keep her
dream awake of what was
a lifetime ago she whispers slowly from nowhere.

sometimes I'm afraid of her power
but when she speaks I'm covered in emotions
I wish that all can be the same
like once upon a time
*today, tomorrow and every day.

So I had to put some effort into
finding things I regret these days,
but it wasn't too hard coming from
a bitter mindset.
Come to think of it,
I regret many years of my life,
even if I don't regret the people.
Sincerely wish that wasn't the case,
but whatever, right?
Pour me another glass of anything,
I think I'm drinking anticoagulants
these days, but remembering
is so **** painful,
I forget...
The numbers on these pencils,
so I switched to ink;
Now I cover up the mistakes
I used to erase.
Now when you call me
I don't answer quite
the same way I used to.
Now when people look
for me, they find me lost
or wandering somewhere
I really shouldn't be.
Sitting in living rooms
with pictures of people
who aren't smiling.
Fix me a drink!
No, fix the one in my hands,
or the one in the back of my
skull.
"Fix something already",
he said, comprehending
the wounds were indeed
fatal already, yet eventually.

Sometimes I feel lonely
I'm not alone
I have a boyfriend
And great friends
But within myself
I feel abandoned
I feel lost, abused, and afraid
But mostly I'm lonely
I don't know why
All I know is I'm dying inside
It's horrible in my mind
I need stability
I need internal security
It's terrible to be lonely

Where's the beauty without the cracks?
What is color without black?
Where's the the love without the hurt?
What is success without work?

I like you better broken
You look prettier when you bleed
I like you better torn open
There's music in your screams.

Where's the happy without the sad?
What is lucid without knowing mad?
Where is life without death?
What is having if nothing left?

I like you better shattered
Sharp edges glitter in moonlight.
You look so beautiful hurting
In too much pain to sleep at night.

The pieces don't fit, who's going to fix it?
You can't stand, can't sit, who's going to fix you?
The bleeding won't quit, who's going to fix it?
Fight or flight, run or hit, who's going to fix you?

I like you better broken
There's nothing here to mend.
I like you better bleeding
With your heart in my hand.

With your heart in my hand.

Words** ,
What do you make of it?
So saccharine
So chasmic
Yet
So raw
So excruciating.
That It guzzles your heart bit by bit
Words,
What do you make of it
When you see them caper
As you see your feet in rain
Or when you witness it
Spanking scorn on people’s mind
And forcing them to spend those sleepless night,
Why so confusing are them words?
Why the scent of them arouses a writer’s heart
And becomes a cause or,
An apocalypse.
What do you make of it?
When it pushes you to the apex
Or drags you down to the burning fiasco
And you think it Is fix
Words, that makes schadenfreude
Alive,
Death scary
And life so obsessing?
The base of hopes,  
Wings of imagination
The eyes of love
A scent, of imagination
A magic
A poison
A tower so bright
Somewhere in horizon
Words,
So many yet so little
Things to say
But, words are them
What do you make of it?