You breathed life in me
from the first day we met.
You gave me
a part of yourself
that I will
always hold
inside of me,
******* in a knot
so I will never lose it.

I continue to grow,
each breath of yours
adding strength to me,
leaving behind
a pleasant, warm feeling.

And everytime
I feel as though
I am about to burst,
you always know
just how to let the air out.

I can see how much
you've changed.

My whole life
you've made your house
a home
and always
invited me inside, but

you're beaten down now,
worn out and overused.

You need help
from top to bottom,
chips and cracks
lining every part of you.

Your railing is wobbly,
swaying from side to side
until one of us
can steady you.

We can't help you anymore,
we don't know what to do.

We're leading you
into someone else's hands
so they can fix you,
so they can help you.

You need to make someone else's
house into a home.

I am
the real world's
writing utensil.

From checks,
envelopes,
to contracts,
you'll find me,
not a pencil.

The only problem
with being
the real world's
writing utensil
is that I can never
erase my mistakes.

From scribbling out
to whiting out,
they never
truly disappear.

I let people
walk all over me
so much that
I needed signs put up
telling them
to keep off.

Everyone has a
love-hate relationship
with us.
One minute
we're being kissed
and the next
we're being left.

People shake us,
throw us,
use us
just to get themselves
more money.

In this game of
love and luck and life,
we lose
every time.

My insides
were so
full
when we first met

but then
you kept
squeezing and
pushing me,
using me
till the
very last drop
was gone.

Any excuse
to touch your lips
is okay by me,
even if it means
I am now
empty.