Here I am contemplating life and death because
I often write poems that are sad
They come from my anger, my hatred, my pain...
But often enough, good things come from the bad

I write of my miserable existence
And of how I long to be held in your embrace
Of what lies ahead and what was left behind
I write about how many things are usually replaced

My poetry is brewed, so to speak I suppose
In this head of mine, where i think and ponder
Where I lust and desire and want and wish
And where to thoughts of you I tend to wander

So here I am, still writing of the sorrow
Hoping somehow these words will change your mind
I am writing a poem that isn't sad, to simply prove
I may not be normal, but I'm the normalest you'll find

Sometimes
I look at couples

with their perfect families

               holding tight to a
kaleidoscope
          of joy

and I wonder
why everything I see

is so black and white

        and I wish
someone could show me
a glimpse
                  of color that doesn't fade

Though darkness now itself abounds
Many dreams can still be found
For every moment spent in sorrow
Possibilities ring full tomorrow
I may be a human being
Who also soars on golden wing
In a heart once filled with song
Fear can never last too long.

She looked at me and said,
"You should **** me
before you love me."
And so I did.

Her hands covered her *******
and she said,
"I want you to guess which breast
my father touched first."
And so I did.

The bones in her hands shifted
as she fixed her hair into a ponytail.
"You're going to promise me that
you're not going to try to fix me.
You're going to promise me, okay?"
And so I did.

Her lips would start bleeding
because when she lied
she chewed her lips.
She said, "I think today
will be the last day I live."
And I asked her for one more.

Dry blood sat on her inner lips
as she kissed me good morning.
Her voice softly cooed,
"I hope that isn't the last time
I kiss you."
And I asked her for one more.

She bled,
"All you write about are girls.
You never write about me.
All you write about are faces
without souls. What about my soul?
Are you going to
******* write about my soul?
Are you going to write another poem?"
And I asked her for one more.

Looking at me,
she ran her fingers
down her hips,
across scars,
and said,
"Too many men look at me
and see what they want to.
They look at me and see
broken picture frames
that they can repair
and put our faces into."

Our hands met
and our fingers grasped
at the pieces of ourselves
that were deeper than faces.
But it was only me
as she whispered,
"Stop,"
licked my cheek
to my ear,
finishing,
"Don't fall in love
with what you
think you see.
Just **** me."

And so I did.
And so I asked her for one more.

Intrusive thoughts..
Salty Sweet..
Shake the ground,
Beneath my feet.

There will always be someone's pain that you don't understand.