Sticks and stones may break my bones
But words cut even deeper.
For someone as fragile as I,
The Spoken is The Reaper.

So if her last words do the deed
and **** me even faster,
I may be able to hear my death,
a beautiful disaster.

I can’t recommend the mender,
his mind finally took the toll.
Nobody could crack the mystery
behind the mender’s cracked soul.

If you cannot heal the healer
then just tell your life to heel,
for speeding kills you quicker
than the waiting ever will.

My muses are no longer amusing,

the pen no longer spills red ink.

The clouds in my mind do not condense,

thus rain cannot stain the paper.

A blank slate, though cliche

is the only thing I see.

Perhaps to mean rebirth,

yet the newborn does not go blind.

The faces are stamped on each letter,

even if it is not from nor adressed to them.

Ink can be smudged, yet the one who smears it

can still read the fine print.

The worst kind of pain

is not what you experience head-on,

but what scrapes at you, indirect

hits aimed for someone else.

An arrow may hit a bullseye

after barely missing a tree.

The arrow is sadness.

It hits one person, then those connected

feel the sting. Its target,

was it the tree or the bullseye?

The tree, barely hit,

was the target. The bullseye

the main sufferer, for it can’t take

seeing friends weak.

It absorbs its own shock,

pain inflicted upon herself,

the universe srtiking down on her.

It cracks under suffering from

the people who mean the most,

who mean more to her than

her own self.

Chop her down, carve her out,

paint a single dot on her heart,

and hang her up on another tree.

She feels nothing until she’*****

By the pain meant for the tree

Behind her.

You drown in shallow breath

when the tides turn.

When the heroine becomes ******,

when what you thought was right

writes over everything with red ink

and you cannot escape.

You hide behind the blinds

but you are the blindsided,

Run away from your pain

and trip over the pacifier.

You’ve worked so hard

for nothing to work out,

you try to fix things that

are fixed in place.

Fate is fatality,

and is something

you cannot counter.

Like having casual tea with a casualty,
you’re boring me to death.
Can you stop wasting air talking
of your last breath?

While heartlessly seeming,
while your heart’s still beating
you should put your pulse to use
For each song cannot function without a beating heart
And a beautiful one we’d lose

Do you want to have your sheet music
buried under sheets,
never to be seen nor heard nor felt
or even worth caring?

Let beauty flow through sorrowed songs,
with every breath you take
don’t bore us all to tears with such a
fatal mistake.. If life you take..