Ever told the weeds by the sidewalk of your self-loathe?

She called me by my name
The shine in her eyes were missing
Her voice was a blizzard
Her lips were a tight line
And I thought that it was my fault,
Because I was so afraid
I pushed her away
And she stopped coming back.

I called her by her nickname today
I tried to reignite the stars in her eyes
I dug so much out of my voice for her
Her lips were a slight curve
And I thought that it will be my fault
Because I am fearful once more
And if i pushed her away,
She might never come back.

If he ever tells you stuff, please hear him out.
Believe him when he says he's blown the slates off the roof
It's nothing but the truth and he isn't lying
People break down so slowly, you can barely hear them.
They're like snow on the mountain top
building up so much pressure within the cold thin air
And just a drop of a stone could trigger an avalanche
And it's just that wisp of breath before they are gone forever.

There is another world inside my head.
Tsunamis with a darker shade of red.
I do not wish for every wave that crash ashore to corrode my skull.
I liked the sound of the sea.

But I would grate every inch of my skin till it is paper thin.
I detest these ribs that cages my heart like a prisoner.
I detest this heart that never skipped a beat.
I detest these shoulders that keeps weighing down on me.
My feet have already made a home six feet under.
I want to dig every filth out of my veins.
I hate that I'm making it hard for myself to breathe.
I want to throw away every thought that ever passes my mind
not of death, but of people dying.
People touches my raw nerve so easily
Sometimes I shake

And I hate that every crevice in my mind tells me
someone dripping with self-loathe could be poetic.
With words in a garden of thorns that the tsunami fed.
I would pour my insides out but they'd make such a mess.

I met a ghost
Her skull dressed in pale skin
Her tightly knitted lips tied with creases
Where guilt from binging hid upon

I spoke to a ghost
And I thought the wind could bury her words
like faded letters on typewriter keys
For her breathing was silent

I typed for a ghost
She did so in return too
Somehow that day I thought I heard her cry for help
And I wondered why people scamper at the sound of a ghost

I listened to a ghost
She told me lately she was a cold insomniac
She was skin and bones
But she thought she reeked of grease

I befriended a ghost
I always thought lights would guide her home
She never looked into my eyes
And maybe she is just as afraid to seek out the shine in my hollow sockets
As I am of losing track of her voice

I misunderstood a ghost
Ghosts do not fear the darkness around them
When the shadow in the water smiled back at me
Her sockets were hollow and
Every vein in my body were cold.

It’s funny how I thought I could save a ghost
When the priest chased after me with a sheath
And I thought that perhaps,
She met a ghost.

At 3a.m.,
some poets are waiting
to catch the peeling paint
on the ceiling
as if they are shooting stars.

At 3a.m.,
some poets yearn a talk
on the kitchen counter
with a butcher knife right beside
so they can slice their heart,
to heart.

And I, at 3a.m.,
whisper my dreams to the pipe
and ask for the rooster
not to wake me from my trance tonight

It does not matter to me
if the sun ever collides with the moon at 3a.m..
And I think that, perhaps,
I was never a poet.