He came screaming into my life like a balloon accidentally,
Let loose before the knot is tied,
And his words make me giddy.
So why do the words not flow onto the page over him?
Why can I only write sad poems?

We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.


We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.

Drowning?
Not a chance
Swimming?*
Not even close

I’m trying, can’t you see
Barely above the surface
Minimal effort
Maximum exertion
Holding on,
Letting go,

I’m just... *floating

Every time I swallow one of your excuses I lose a piece of myself.
If you don’t want to go out with me, tell me don’t give me an excuse.
Every time you go out with another girl, I confront you.
You say I’m not good enough and that you need a girl who cares.
I care, I care about you even when you hit me and told me I was a *****.
I won’t leave and you know that.
You make me feel like I can’t live without you.
Your right I can't live without you, I can't buy clothes or make my own choice of what I want to eat without asking you.

Emptiness Is

Palms covered in little crescents
Your fingernails digging in to distract you
From the fact that your ribs are a cage
Without a bird.

Depression isn't when you know
That everything around you
Is going wrong
and you feel sad,
Depression is when you know
That everything around you
Is going right
And you still feel you sad.