no one has ever made me feel like i wasn't welcome in my own home.
no one but you.

i.

my nettles sting,
my mind dreams
of ghosts,
nothing seems
to settle
under that hovering
sky of wire.

ii.

lost to a broken civilization
in a sky of sighs
caves filled with
ice.

iii.

further than the sky,
further than the sea.

iv.

dreams like drowning
pools

the waving wind
the castles of the mind.


v.

shadows
unwinding
the slow pulse of
the earth,
like the battling
waves,
like the far, far
dream of a star.

The demons are mocking us
We part of a deal
They let our souls rust
It could never be real

If we could just, just wake up...
Maybe the light would shine brighter upon our souls.

i'm tired
i'm so tired

it makes me wonder if i'm always this easy to fool

don't cradle me in your
- I love you's
in your
- I'm sorry's
in any of your excuses

don't you dare try to plant another rose in my stomach
i'm starting to over cultivate
don't you dare try to plant another rose on my lips
spring is hidden behind my cold winter words

this poem is a mess
but who cares

i shall sleep once more
free of restraints and excuses

the gardener to my own garden

I tried to write a happy poem.
I tried to throw myself into a pit of nostalgia to try and remember what happiness feels like.

All my poems are so sad, I don't know why I'm so sad.
My therapist tells me I have self esteem issues that effect everything else in my life.
My insecurities have ways been there, I had just never been able to put a name to the face until I brought a razor to my skin for the first time and the pain didn't feel wrong.
I didn't know what I was doing was wrong, I had no idea that it was wrong to be a  12 years old with arms covered in scars I call my battle wounds,
because no one wants to talk about the elephant in the room when it sounds like I've been to war and I'm only 17.
They won't poke and **** me with questions when it sounds like I was captured by the enemy and skinned for my beliefs.
I won't be questioned why I am not happy.
Why at 12 years old I was unhappy and why I am 17 years old now and I am still not happy.

I tried to write a happy poem.
I tried to write a happy poem by thinking 6 years back to before I knew I put the name to the face, before my insecurities were put on show for the world to see,
before I knew it was wrong to hate myself for what I wasn't and for who I wanted to be.
Until it finally hit me.
I've never been happy.
My hair was never as long as the ******* my left,
my body was never as skinny as the ******* my right.
My smile was never the shiniest nor were my eyes the brightest.
I tried to write a happy poem, but I can't write about a foreign entity, I can't write about something I have never had.
The concept of happiness is so alien that no wonder that when people are overcome with the feeing they feel out of this world.

Happiness is a luxury that I have never been given the privilege of.
Happiness is a luxury that I have never I will never been given the privilege of of.

I tried to write a happy poem,
I feel more empty inside than I've ever felt before.