You
I thought I'd killed you
Haven't you done enough
Haven't you caused me to suffer enough?
I sliced my wrist for you
drew lines of blood across my chest
There will be faint scars that I will always
see as red
Because of you.
I collapsed the world for you.
Almost died for you.
For fifteen years I smothered myself
  So that you could live.
And then I killed you.
Sick as I was for having inhibitions on my happiness
just for you to survive
I said goodbye in the rain
Staring into the trees made out through the mist
You were gone
I made sure you were gone.
But here you are
back again to cause me pain.
Guised in the cloak of being a friend
You smile so kindly
but I know better.
I am not the girl you thought I was,
The girl you made me be.
I hate you!
I ******* hate you.
But I also love
you.
I love you
You are a part of me.
Us in our duality
I wouldn't be here if not for you.
You wouldn't be here if not for me.
For having to support me
  In the world gone mad
I still hate you
hate that the pain I suffered under your hands
    is what brought me here.
Here at the crossroads where I must choose.

I hate you
But I love you
******* I love you.
You are a part of me
A crucial necessity of my identity.
I cannot survive without you
  without the memories of you.
       The memories of us.
All the times we flew
All the times we fell.
I know which path I must choose
The one to travel on without you.
But before we go
   Our separate ways
know that I love you
  that I won't forget you
Even in time as the voice we shared
  Deepens into my own
Even when I remove the tissue
   you grew on my chest
I won’t forget you.
You are a part of me
I love you
You are me
But I am no longer a part of
              you.

I am not broken.
For so long I thought I was,
thought that all the things that separated
Me from my peers
were cause to slice along my seams
Just a little more.
Until I was a marionette with no strings,
a discarded toy,
a vase broken into a thousand pieces.

I stopped believing then,
Believing in all the good that
has kept me alive.
And I fell-man did I fall.

But I’m back.

In my time in the pit
I found all the pieces
that had been cut away.
All those flaws and insecurities,
I picked them up
held each to the distant sun.
glued them back in place.
Until I was whole.

I began to climb.
Painfully clawing up the dark
walls of the pit I'd been born in,
I slipped and fell, scraped my knees,
and begged for mercy.
Still I climbed.
and now I am in the light,
Standing on fragrant grass and
Breathing air that smells of life.

I'm chipped and scarred
There are things I'll never be able to shake.
But I'm standing tall
and though it may not look it
I assure you of this one thing:

I am not broken.

I am from Eastern Europe.
Brownstone and Komet
Jacobson and Kramer.
The blood in these veins
is the blood from the
Holocaust,
Those lucky enough to escape.

I was created through a series of
genetics and discrepancies
that lay upon my
Chromosomes.

Scars on my chest
yellowish skin that needed light
to whiten.
From brown hair brown eyes
red cheeks
long fingers.

From the pretense of
being first in line
To being stubborn
in all the wrong ways.

I am from Neverland
leader of the Lost Boys
I prefer a knife to a sword,
and a sword to a gun.
Though I abhor violence.

I am from oblivion, coming back
because I didn’t want
to go alone.

I am guided by a spirit
One who stands beside me,
through it all.

Twin soul to an angel,
fear of the dark.

I am from countless brave
people their blood is in
my veins.
I am from a snowstorm
and a sunless day
but still bright enough to see in.

I am from love and hate,
Shame and pride.

I am from magic and life.

I am from nowhere and
everywhere.

I am from

This blood in my veins.

Writing is the form of self expression through black scratches of ink on ****** paper. When a person write's, their mind disappears from the mortal world of men and transcends reality, writing is akin to being a god. When you hold a pen in your hand or have your fingers hover just above the keys of a laptop, you are holding the potential to create a universe. To create life. The untapped souls that reside on the flat side of your fingers, in the ridges and whorls of your skin, cause your entire body to sway in time with the beats of your stories' hearts.
    The sound of words yet unwritten echo around your mind their sweet honeyed vowels whispering ever so gently while the hard consonances beat a savage rhythm of the utmost beauty, falling and crashing rebounding along the walls that make up the border of reality; and together with the force of your will the  words break the wall and there is no impossible. Stories manifest themselves on gleaming white paper, using your passion to create their blood, the light of your fevered gaze to make their breath and from your life they too come to life.
    Sometimes their life saves yours...
You are reminded that the world is not just you, there are lives out there that depend on  you. Somewhere out there in the unfathomable  depths of a billion diamond universes someone needs you. Sometimes you never get to see the people who need you, they never hear you. But the words transmitted from the synapses in your brain to the black scratches on paper will last forever, and one day they'll see them and know that you were, even if by that time you are dust in the wind.
    Pure words come from imperfect souls, their beauty derived from the pain faced throughout a thousand life times. Culminating in the perfect way to fall on that one person's ears to grace those one pair of eyes, the pain of a writer exists to bring peace to another.    
    Is it not enough to worship words? To wish so hard that you are the one receiving the peace for once instead of handing it out, before you realise that the peace you get comes from what you give and that your own serenity lies in the wondering of why skys S-K-Y-S is so much more attractive than skies S-K-I-E-S.  Is it not enough to wonder at the glory of worlds and spiraling galaxies with arms twining about one another connecting to create something better...something greater. And it comes to you right before bed in that space between sleeping and awake, that those galaxies are you and those arms which twirl about so beautifully in the velvet sky are the sparkle in your eyes. That something greater is what you have to give, and it goes to show that there needn't be a rhyme or reason for doing what you love. Love itself is irrational, and yet we go with it blindly following the beating of our hearts to create more than we are. Our love is to spread a bit of ourselves into the lives that reside in our fingertips to bring that one person we may never know the peace they need, through black ink scratches on paper soiled with our pain.

A girl born with a tremor in her heart
The doctors say she'll stop growing
at six months old.
The mother feeds her and feeds her
she is seven years old
and still growing every day
stronger and stronger.
Look me in the eye
and say you don't believe in miracles.
A young boy is all alone
His parents died in a car crash
when he was only eight.
Yet he is not sad
He said goodbye
Once by their hospital beds
Where they squeezed his hands
Even though they were asleep
and once at their graves
where he felt their ever watchful gaze.
Look me in the eye
and say you don't believe in miracles.
She is thirteen when the first cut was made
Not on her skin but on her heart
where no one but her could see.
But they multiplied and multiplied
Until they were visible to the naked eye
And everyone saw what she had done
so she talked and explained
she is on the mend.
Look me in the eye
and say you don't believe in miracles.
He fell and fell
Into the darkest pits of Hell
but he did not lie.
He stood and he climbed
Climbed out of the pit
Swearing he would win the battle
And in the end the war
he made it out of the darkness
he won.
Look me in the eye
and say you don't believe in miracles.
A girl kidnapped at four
Escaped her prison at twenty-four
before she made it to the nearest phone
she ran into her father.
Look me in the eye
and say you don't believe in miracles.
They are old and weary
Ready to move to the next phase in life
they feel they have truly lived.
There are scars  on their body
Some self inflicted
Others inflicted by life
Their eyes are bright
But haunted  by what they have seen
From heaven to hell
And back to heaven again
They are still haunted by hell
This person is dying
But they are not scared
they are surrounded by those they love
and pass in happiness.
Look me in the eye
and tell me that you don't believe
in miracles.

There are three kinds of angels in the world.
You have your Arch Angels who are the big deal celebrities of all angels
They only get involved in the most serious of mortal affairs
Their club is exclusive, open only to those with golden wings.
They say they  that they are guardians of all,
But do not protect, only intervene.
Then you have your Guardian angels  who are celebrities to mortals
They get involved but only in highly dangerous personal affairs
Their club is open, if you have white wings and a halo you're in.
They say that they are guardians assigned to certain people ,
To protect at all costs, even their immortal souls.
And then you have your shadow angels the ones that no one knows exist
They are involved with everything us mortals do
Their club does not exist, they stay in the shadows not drawing attention to their black wings and silver shields.
They do not claim to be guardians, only mere observers that report to the higher ups,
A special few though are guardians , guardians of those mortals who have seen
The Angel of Death.
And turned away.
These are the mortals that these shadow angels watch,
Those who need no protection, but a guiding hand.
That is what these black winged angels do.
Those special few watch over their special charges and let them know,
It will be alright.
That death is not impatient, he only wants the best.
That indeed it is not your time to go,
Death  can wait,
Life cannot.
But when their mortals time has come, they will be there with an outstretched hand.
So that they can take you to meet Death,
And acknowledge that it is indeed their time.
These are the angels that no one speaks about,
The ones who have no club,
Require no admiration,
Those angels who stand  alone in the shadows
Who keep the mortal race from despair.
They who are the champions of life,
and who guide us to our ends.
These angels.
These black winged shadow angels
With their swords and shields of silver,
Only shine at night,
When no one is awake to
                see.

It hurts. It hurts so ******* bad. I just wish it would stop. I wish I could make it stop. I wish I could die. But I can’t. There is no way for me to stop it. And it hurts, it hurts so bad.
I had a stroke when I was four, it changed my life forever. So I walk with a limp and my hand held in the air.  I had a stroke when I was four, it changed my life forever. I thought I could handle it but I can’t. I had a stroke when I was four, it changed my life forever. I still can’t handle it but I now know that there is nothing to fear. I walk with the limp now but keep my head held high. I had a stroke when I was four, it changed my life forever. But knowing that pain means I know others pain. Because I had a stroke when I was four, and it changed my life forever. And yes it hurts, and I’m still called names. I had a stroke when I was four, it changed my life forever. I had that stroke. I had a stroke when I was four; it changed my life for the better.