What?

Right. I don't give a ****.

Why don't you just die.

Toolbox ******.

Look at a flame. How it dances. How it makes everything feel right.

Look at a bulb. How it buzzes. Judges. Reminds you it is no longer light.

Look at the face. That just is. Just that face. Just that might.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Daffodils are yellow.

How can it feel numb and hurt so much.

How can it be nothing, yet break to touch.

When it stands up in early light like a flower

Yet crumbles like a dandelion, with such little power.

Is it weakness. It's not strength.

Well what can you do. At this length.

Write ****** poems and hope to be heard.

Does it matter. Who actually reads a ******* word.

My Olive

My little broken flower

I'm sorry I didn't know

I destroyed every hour

I allowed you to whither inside

You are still alive

If only in my mind

I love you. Without meeting you. I love where you grew.

My Olive

In the quiet recesses of my soul, you reside,
A fragile echo of what could have been.
Though unseen, your presence is felt,
A silent bond that transcends words.
No language can express the depth of my love,
For you, my Olive, forever cherished.

If you struggle to feel

Are you empty

Or full?

A shard of glass was stabbed into me.
unwanted, uninvited.
It stuck, familiarised, but unmentioned.
I tried to pull it out, but it was watched
By darkened shadows
Painted as friendly flowers.
I pulled it free
But the sun sank
The shadows freed
The shard replaced
Repeatedly.

You look around

Is it suffocating or enlightening

Are you swimming or drowning

Are you free or engaged

own yorself or be enslaved

Who really gives a sshit but you

I changed.

I told everyrone I ******* changed

It's still there

Cry or laugh

Laugh or cry

What the **** are you looking at either way

*******