I adore you
I lust you
I want you
I need you
I ache for you
But I dont love you

I have always believed that human beings grew up wanting to be grown
and spent the time when we were wanting to try again
all the time I have known I felt this was true
and coming back to me and you I'll say it again:
life is not lived outside of original sin
and every step I take feels like a mistake
no emo lyricism here
just real fear because there's too much dark in this big broad world for anyone to shed any real light
and without light the shadows creep and crawl
and I can watch the walls but who mans the halls
all night long I wait awake
every blink and every breath I take another reason for me to fear
"major depressive disorder"
doctors croon that like a sweet lullabye
but that does nothing to dry my eyes because what?
I'm not sick, just crazy?
I'm not hurt, just lazy?
I know the pains I feel so deep
if they aren't real then neither am I
I fall short of every sunrise with color but I try
major depressive disorder according to books
(allow me to paraphrase, I can't be bothered to look again)
is categorized by an extreme feeling of hopelessness
and loss of interest and I feel they are lacking finesse
when I am told I am a sad sad soul because the world is grand and wide
and I would invite it all to come inside
but I can't and that makes me sad.
it makes me sad when I see the way people are treated.
it makes me sad and often downright defeated
and when the little flame that keeps this broken heart burning
gets washed out by the darkness of the world awake and yearning
waiting for a moment of doubt and weak
I feel so ******* meek
me, meek.
I feel like the world is collapsing but only in my chest
I feel like an infant in a bulletproof vest getting shot
my skin starts to itch and I can't scratch with my nails deep enough
and son of a ***** they don't trust me with sharp things anymore
and the scores on my arms are the times I have lost
and this battle isn't won and this is hardly a war
this is slaughter, this is me standing alone under the whole wide world and keeping it up
and this is everyone I love looking at me straining and telling me that I'm slipping up
alaska is too far south today, do I even give a ****?
depression is not a feeling of overwhelming sadness
I am not sad because of misaligned cables in my mind
I am sad because no matter how hard I try
I'm told that I am not.
but here I am still trying, standing up from my cot on the floor
and every step outside that yawning door
there are people pulling me back and slinging words that cut deeper than I ever did
and every hand that grasps my shirttails to try and pull me home like a lost little kid
leaves mars all down my back, claws that sink and ravage leaving me ****** and raw
and bleeding open and sloppy all on the floor I keep my pace, like every step will be the last straw
like every step is the last one I need to take to get away
and as I go I follow all the trails of similar blood, refreshed by people like me every day.
and I just wanted to say
I don't give a flying **** what you think you know about my scars
I don't care if it makes you uncomfortable to see my arms, the sun is out and it's 90 ******* degrees
don't lie to me and say I should be ashamed and not wear these badges like good luck charms
don't tell me my survival is offensive to your eyes because you should know without being told
these scars are here to help me grow old
when I needed to remember I was alive these scars
were fresh cuts, science experiments on a corpse brought back screaming "I'M ALIVE"
I'm not ashamed for surviving because if I were ashamed
I wouldn't be.

The twisted reality is that bones break. People literally break and you dont always get better. Lives end, stories end, and people rarely get new beginings. The twisted reality is that none of what you thought as a kid was true. Not everyone can be president, and you cant be who you want to be. The twisted reality is that there are monsters in some little girls rooms, and thier moms cant make them go away. The twisted reality is that nightmares only end when you do, you dont get to wake up and think everything is fine. The twisted reality is that your parents lie to you. Not everyone is beautiful, not everyone is talented, and not everyone can be special. The twisted reality is that someone in your current school will become a 'villian' before thier life is over. The twisted reality is that we are all villians. Doing horrible things for what we think is right. The twisted reality is that most people will ignore what i am saying. Live in the lie. The twisted reality is people die thinking everything is fine.

They called him....
They called him things
he told his parents
But they never believed
People don't like to see
Pain
To them it was a game
But he was drowning in hate
And no one heard him scream
Can you hear him scream?
he got tripped in the hallway
His sanity was ripped at the seams
he was a nobody
Till Saturday the fifteenth
what are you gonna do about it?
he pull out of his  back pack
They laughed
stupid ***** what are you gonna do about that?
he pulled out a gun
And aimed right under his hat
do it, I know you can't
your to much of a ***** to do that
he was gonna pull the trigger
he almost did
But he turned it on himself
he couldn't deal with it
he had to get them to stop talking
Or he would have to stop listening
afterwards most of the people cried
Some were never the same
But one kid laughed
I knew you couldn't shot me *****
His death was in vain

I told myself I wouldn't write another **** poem.

I told myself reliving the same traumas
over
and over
would not aid in the healing process,
but these are not
the same traumas,
this is not
another **** poem,
there is just
so much ******* material
that it's starting to run together.

She went to a movie with him,
somewhere public,
somewhere safe,
and still he drug his hand
up her thigh,
she kept her mouth shut,
tried to push him away,
wouldn't want to interrupt the best scene,
whispered
"stop",
he didn't listen.

He was in his girlfriend's bedroom,
watched her sit in silence
fuming
when he said
"no"
for the fourth time,
told himself to
man up
when she said
"what, don't you love me?"
He swore he did,
he just couldn't show it like this,
she didn't listen.

She was at his apartment,
told him that morning
she just wasn't in the mood today,
she shifted inside herself
as he kissed her neck
the same way he had
hundreds of times before,
forced a laugh as she said
"I really don't want to,"
he didn't listen.

She was sitting on his couch
when he put his arm around her,
unwrapped herself from him,
he told her to
"just relax,"
became comfortable in a body
he was never invited into,
she got away,
called her brother from the next street over,
explained to him from the passenger seat
that she had said no,
he didn't listen.

I told myself I wouldn't write another **** poem
because I had convinced myself it wouldn't happen again,
had convinced myself that
my friends and family
were not a part of the statistic,

but every sobbing phone call
or hushed condolence
reminds me that
this happens every day,
that pretending **** culture does not exist
will not make it go away,
that 20% of human beings
in the United States
will be ***** in their lifetime,
that 20% of the people I love
will be ***** in their lifetime.

I keep telling myself
I will not write another **** poem,

keep reminding myself
to look at the facts.

He kisses me
Our little secrets
He touches me
Or little secret
He loves me
Our little secret
He drugged me
Our little secret
He keeps me
Our little secret
I can't scream
Our little secret
I can't breathe
Our little secret
You're chocking me
Our little secret
He killed me
*Our little secret

We have the same hands;
Or at least they're similar.
I've noticed before,
But I forgot until today....
What your hands look like,
It says a lot about you.


Mine are the hands of a pianist:
Long and slender fingers.
Mine are mostly soft and gentle and afraid --
Yet callused where I hold my pen.
Mine are seemingly smooth and fair,
Unless you look close and see the freckles and scars...
                 (My faults on display like tiny decorative stars)

When you exhale,
Your breath forms a cloud.
I wish your intent
Was as clear to visualize.

These silhouettes we cast on the wall,
A fading echo of who we are now;
The only reminder you leave with me
Is the smell of you waning on my sheets.

THIS IS MY ATTENTION GRABBER
This is how I plan to have you hooked
I can tell you how I cut
But never broke skin
Or I can tell you how I'm lost
About how I hurt my only friend
I can tell you about my father
Or my innocent sister
About my broken mother
Or my uninvited mister
I can tell you all these things
To get you to listen
Pain is my attention grabber
Are you listening?

I remember learning Augustana's Boston
Because you made my keys alive with it
As Luck ran about your legs
Luck died and we did too, in a way

I am the undead, and you are the ghost
In wisps you appear, in whispers you speak
You haunt in place of love

I prefer to devour hearts
I cry out for help, but no one can hear me
My lips are sown shut but they forgot my eyes

I've forgotten how to play Boston
So I guess that means you won't
                           Come home

you have eyes
you have a sight
but you didn't see

you have a mouth
you have a voice
but you didn't speak

you have ears
you could hear
but you didn't understand

you have a head
you have a brain
but you didn't think

you have a heart
you could feel
but you didn't let it beat
not even a little bit, not even at all




(samber)