I am bothered by the slaughter
That her hands had cost her.

"I swear this time
Is the last time."

I swore not to leave you
But now I don't know you
What changed you so drastically?

Was it lies by your bedside?
A glimpse of the inside
A shadow remains of once was

Torn from my own mind
Lived in my own life
Succumbing to faith I don't have

Was it all in the season?
Did it have any reason?
Would you swear on your life for me now?

A fire extinguished
You've become so distinguished
But who can you say you are when?

A life held at arm's length
A soul on it's short leash
Go on and cut it all free

No one will miss it
This day, go and kiss it
Maybe you'll bring back a smile

A walk on the lone mile
Your heart isn't on trial
Only the brains you once had

War of this same kind
Found in your own mind
Casting a bright light it's own

All fresh red roses
Alone at the window
Will wilt if you don't keep care

It's not so bad outside
But who know's what is inside?
A darkness that hides our true self

What's beneath our faces
A soul... ever tasteless
What's going on inside your head?

This rain never ending
This world ever sinning
One day I'll burn it all down

Your lack of real thinking
Your brain's always shrinking
Your own box is all you'll ever have

This life that's misleading
The trek that we're treading
Where will it all end and how?

This line begs a question
What's our destination?
Were we there before we ever left?

In bitter seas of ruin is where you cast yourself to drown 'til tides of fury would carry your body back to the shore to rot upon.

And gleaming eyes in life are now dead and staring cold. Lifelessly your body lays in its repose.

In death you have now traveled to places I dare not ever go, until my time to join you in the vastness of the God Knows.

And I recall your stuttered breath and your final sputtered words. How your breath cut like knives, and how your words had cut like swords.

I remember the upheaval of my heart and how you snared it with your claws. And how your bitter end etched into my brain gave me a cerebral pause.

And how I wondered if I had caught them, if I had acted on warning signs, would I have been able to stop it: your self inflicted demise.

But now you've left me to go on to a place I dare not ever go. Until my time has come and when you finally call me home.

Before night fall, before I nod off to sleep- I am the worst of all the things that have always bothered me.
The devil of all the worst to keep.

The stories and what they meant- behind the pen and words to describe them so patiently.

Without purpose, and of no direction to speak. I paint them in a line dividing my mind and my reality.

Of these things I've hoped to have accomplished but have failed and how if you've succeeded then it bitterly depresses me:

So, dark streets with no lighting but for the car. A long drive seemed fairly uninteresting. All thoughts about the girl sitting next to me.

And how she stays quiet for a while before she starts to talk about the things she seems to thinks we need.

And in that moment I can sense it- a destiny. Not for the rest of our lives but for the hint of self discovery.

All the fallacies we believe, can they start crumbling?

It's short lived, the quickly dissolving feeling of warmth. The lines falter between the physical desire for lust now and the need for love more than anything.

And if I missed out on both was it fear of further failure or the consequences of love that's been shattered?

I never wanted to get left behind. And so I treacherously denied myself the feeling of hope and watched it all slip by.

Without hesitation, no doubt of anything at all, I pushed on to try and find meaning. No meaning. We just expose all the carnal parts. To try and find healing in the arms of those we hope to know.

I want to experience love without doubt, without wondering if there went something wrong. I want to bury the ghosts and put them deep in the ground. And I fear the dangers of my fears that have been overwhelming me. I want to know why I fear to love the most out of everything. I think it's a shame that I just can't seem to get over you.

Why am I so scared?

I see her blank stares. As she tries to read me. Tries to understand. But it's not dreams or fairy tale land. I'm being haunted by the past and all the broken glass used to cut skin and write out the names of sins.

So was it ever half as much as it seems to me? Or is it just a gentle whisper of what I had thought it had been?

Just us grasping to nothing and holding on tight to the ropes in the hopes of something glorious happening when we sense those feelings we so long to forget.

And so all we know is regret, and I am afraid to admit that I might be ashamed to be feeling. So I try not to feel anything at all, and so I let you leave and you forget and you forget and you forget what we were close to feeling anyway.

I remember every single bitter goodbye I've ever had to say. Left alone here in this town, though I was never forced to stay.

There are ghosts I've left behind me and there are ghosts that still remain. I can feel their haunting presence every single stupid day.

How they tear at all my motives and pull on every string. Leave me choking on my failures. The whispered voice of muted things.

Am I just some bitter tourist dragged by my wrists through private hells? Am I author and conspirator writing the stories in which I dwell?

To what extent am I  responsible for this situation that I'm in? Am I really as alone as I have always thought myself to have been?

There is little I am sure of and fewer still of which I know, but I know that I am dying and that I'm still not ready to go.

I have unfinished business. I just thought that you should know.

My whole generation is getting laid down in caskets. We're leaving the scene in body bags on our road to Damascus. Being buried by parents while grandparents attend service. And I can't help but to think that the future makes me nervous.

We're just waiting for the world to end but the world's not ending.

My whole generation is getting lost in translation. Between these ******* self help books and ******* antidepressants. At one time the future seemed bright but now I'm just too ******* tired. A generation that feels nothing; coldly embraces indifference.

I know you wanted more than feeling empty

We traded car rides for skylines in cities we never share.
And when I'm driving I'm still wishing that you were there.
Wrapped in a blanket, or my jacket, and playing with your hair.
We'd go on adventures, roads open. I'll take you anywhere.

Now the world is changing
And lives, they fall apart
But we can not fix this
If we don't know where to start

We weave these words of kindness
Pretend to understand
We claim to show compassion
But lend no helping hand

I'm on my way to save the world
A world I can see, a world I can touch
I'm not dying for ideals, no
I'm dying for what I love

We walk with eyes half open
Minds closed, refuse to see
Hope is hard to come by
In a world of bitter dreams

We sit on thrones of ashes
With knives behind our backs
We offer out false friendship
It's brotherhood we lack

I'm on my way to save the world
I refuse to change my mind

You're writing your sins down as scars on your wrists and you're hiding them all behind bright colored bracelets. And you're praying at night just to help you get sleep but you're so lonely at times that you can't eat.

And it gets lonelier still when all your friends start to change. Move to new places or move on to new things. But these things don't intrigue you. Not like it does them. So you shove it aside, try not to show your frustration.

There is no salvation. No escape from discontent. Only death dates etched into tombstone cement.

But your frustration's swelling to an ear splitting hum. And your heart's pounding rhythms in the beat of a war drum. There's a slash - a quick flick of the wrists. Broken mirrors. And tears. And fingers curled in fists.

You started tearing down the walls in the back of your mind. Just to find some solace or some peace of some kind. I hope that you find it - the reprieve you're looking for. If you feel disillusioned, I hope you won't anymore

You know:

I started reading about self harm.

And I found that it was the only thing that broke my heart- my scarred and bruised heart was finally broken.

My heart swelled and gushed and broke for you.

And all those gashes.

How the skin swelled. Blood gushed.

How you broke.

And especially how you would lie. And say you're fine. Until your depression forced the truth from your lips.

And I remember all those bracelets. All those things to hide your wrists. And how twloha was seemingly permanently engrained on your arms.

And I remember thanking god that it wasn't from a blade dug into your skin. And how it was funny and ironic because I didn't believe in him then.

But I kept your secret for all these years. And I hope you're doing better.

I pray that you are.

And if you aren't..?
    Well, I guess you'd never tell me.

Not anymore.


And you see:

That's why I'm bitter. Why I'm angry. Why I'm hurt.

Just tell me honestly that you're fine and don't you dare tell me a lie.

Cause I was there.

And I remember.

And I still think about it all the time.


And believe me when I say that it has consumed me.

It affects the way I write.
And what I say.
And how I meant it.

It's about the only thing I write.

Words like: scars. Wrists. Etched. Carved.

See. I'm a liar if I say I still don't think about you all the time.

Oh I looked for something better,
but these lines; they were so bitter.
I find that self-destruction is the latest trend on Twitter.

You know:

I started reading about self harm.

And I found that it was the only thing that broke my heart- my scarred and bruised heart was finally broken.

My heart swelled and gushed and broke for you.

And all those gashes.

How the skin swelled. Blood gushed.

How you broke.

And especially how you would lie. And say you're fine. Until your depression forced the truth from your lips.

And I remember all those bracelets. All those things to hide your wrists. And how TWLOHA was seemingly permanently engrained on your arms.

And I remember thanking God that it wasn't from a blade dug into your skin. And how it was funny and ironic because I didn't believe in Him then.

But I kept your secret for all these years. And I hope you're doing better.

I pray that you are.

And if you aren't..?
    Well, I guess you'd never tell me.

Not anymore.


And you see:

That's why I'm bitter. Why I'm angry. Why I'm hurt.

Just tell me honestly that you're fine and don't you dare tell me a lie.

Cause I was there.

And I remember.

And I still think about it all the time.


And believe me when I say that it has consumed me.

It affects the way I write.
And what I say.
And how I meant it.

It's about the only thing I write.

Words like: scars. Wrists. Etched. Carved.

See. I'm a liar if I say I still don't think about you all the time.

I write uncomfortable poems
I write a bit too much about death
And of these feelings so familiar
And about how she would cut her ******* wrists

And how she would call and recount the horror; I can recall the shaking of her breath
And how every word seemed to break like thunder over telephone lines
And how she'd curse her name with razor blades
And how the feeling of helplessness always kept me awake.

And I write disasters down on paper
And about what else life has left
And of these destructive behaviors
To forget my own, I write out hers

Once again I feel like exploding
Tear it up before it lets me down
Inside out and I never feel like trying
I hate it more than you will ever need to know

Borderline and thoughts written in margins
It's not enough to get me through today
Always thinking I haven't got enough time
Hard to believe it's only a lifetime away

No view from my window.
The clouds blanket the night sky.
Color me shades of gray.
The steam rises up
from the asphalt of the streets.
Beckoning me not to stay.
A distant rumble.
Lightening cracks over my head.
Thunder breaks as if to say.
'You're down for the moment.
Begging the silence.
But just get up today.'

She said 'I know there's a riot
going on up in your head,
but there doesn't have to be.'
She said, "You've been distant.
A little resistant.
But just come back to me.'

She's still waiting.
'I'm still fading.'
'So hold me now.'
'Have no regrets.'
'Don't let me down.'

I see her smile for the first time in so many days.
I think she thinks that I can be saved.
From myself, from what's left in my head.
She's saying sleep, but I stay awake instead.
This helplessness advances and there's no second chances.
I'm left here by myself.
She sits patiently.
She promised she'd wait for me.
She hasn't left me yet.

And so we keep waltzing in, walking out, and hardly keeping up with our lives. And I can't say it's fair to you or to me but when we talk we're really just sitting quiet. Like the damage was done and then healed but left us scarred and alone. Are we so disfigured from this relationship that it will keep us so afraid of love?

And when that love turns to hate or just disdain and maybe apathy, can we keep it all quiet and think "this surely isn't happening." To me, my friends, and my life, and the ground beneath me all are shattering. And if you're feeling the same, can we be missing out on everything?

Why is it always this way between the people who care and myself and all these walls I place? Why can't I look you in the eye and say you matter but my actions aren't reacting straight?

And so you'll say your goodbyes after waltzing in, you're walking out. Don't keep touch.

What's the difference between beauty and poetry?
Is the latter an expression of the former's reality?

Is it poetry if one is simply rhyming things?

When things are even, is it symmetry?
Or is it poetic assembly?

Is it possible to enjoy each individually,
As a separate entity?
Or is there a relationship between them,
A mutual duality?

Does it make a difference anyway?

I used to play you songs when you were feeling down. But now you're not around. Now you never hear a sound.

I've filled notebooks up but I trash them every fall. You never ever call. No you never talk at all.  

And if we're honest for once, I don't think that we could call each other "friend." What a stupid way to end.

But I've got no more ***** to give.
I've got my life to live. And I can't help but to hate you. And I know I should move on. But I still write you songs. And I can't help myself but to love you.

And if I've had hope then I guess it's gone and it's not ever coming back.

You left and now you're gone and I am all alone. But now alone just feels like home. And alone is what I know.

And I remember times, when our hopes were all alive. How you set my soul on fire. How you never said good bye.

And if we're honest for once, I don't think we could know: just how things go. That was a long time ago.

And I know that there's no need to stay, I might as well just go.
But you know that I know that I just want say that I've got

You see, it used to be therapeutic. Writing. But I guess it's just like any other high. You get used to it, and then it stops being enough to help you cope with what you're trying to cope with in the first place. And I don't even know what I was coping with anyway. All I know is that it's not working anymore. Not like it used to. I forge beautiful language and it's not enough to keep me from thinking of my own impending self destruction. Am I going to take a turn too fast or maybe not at all? Or just crawl in my room and live out the rest of my life with no interaction period? I'm pretty close to that in the first place, I think. Even the music isn't enough. Not to cover up the lies that are force fed to me. They say they won't betray me or leave me. That we will always be friends and that no matter what. No matter what. And they all lied. And maybe I'm just complaining for nothing. And maybe it's just a pity party, but I don't think it is. I just feel so deeply and I'm exhausted from it. So yes. There's not many pieces I've written that aren't about you. And fewer still that weren't for you. I never kept anything if I didn't think you would like it. Which is why most things I write even still don't have curse words. Those that do I deemed the word critical and unacceptable to replace with a more blasé word. So.... I don't know why I did this. But I guess it is in some ways disgustingly therapeutic. My poems betray me. They were always yours anyway.

I'm concerned about my general disposition towards things like life and death and apathy. And how I can't seem to care about the future. And about how much the past is affecting me.

And I can't stop thinking about how the people that surround us stop and think of me. I can hear their whispered voices talking and I wonder if they can sense the worst in me.

I chose music over my friends and now I don't have a single one left. I guess what I'm saying is you meant more than music ever did.

And it's a bit ironic how these words become the next song. And I wrote them to replace all the friends I've already lost.

You took my compassion and warped it.
Yeah, you bent it.
Broke it out of recognition.

Left it crumbling on back seats.
Oh, in crutches.
Rotting on top of church benches.

You don't even have to know.

I told you I'd never be angry.
I'm not angry.
Just a bit infuriated.

You tell me that I never listen.
God, I listen.
You're just talking circles around me.

You never say you're sorry.
Sorry I'm not sorry.
You never had to say "I told you so"

You don't even have to know.
No, you don't know.
You don't have to, I told you so.

You don't know.

I’m so used to writing sad songs
But I’m not sad anymore.
I stopped letting those disasters
Define me to the core.

And I’ve been content with what I’m doing;
No longer bruised, no longer sore
From this hard beating I’ve endured
(From this heart beating I’ve endured.)
And I’m not sad anymore

I’m so tired of writing sad songs
I can’t shake these feelings I’ve ignored
Like when I fell to pieces in the bedroom
Or when I passed out on the floor.

I was broken and alone
But you felt like home to me.

And you felt like home to me
And I’m listening to those songs I wrote when I was seventeen
I never thought I’d let that go
And so I think that you should know

That you feel like home to me

It's funny how you use photographs to remember the things you want to remember the best. Using colors and shapes to isolate what you love and to forget about all the rest.

And how I draw out scenes and emotion using poetry and prose. Capturing the minute details and the seemingly superfluous differences and nuances in the way life and love flow.

I know you despise being called an artist and how you claim yourself "lackluster!" in romantic expression. And I know how you call me poet even when I write too much about death and it gives your heart some trepidation.

But, love, the difference between our art isn't in talent or creativity. It's in the vulnerability in my words that I've penned for you. It's the realization that my art isn't good enough for you.

The difference is you don't let your art let someone break you.

It's okay. I never had much hope in it anyway. And besides. I'm horrible.