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Oh, no one seeks a partner with a beautiful mind.
It is all beautiful bodies and *****.
A girl with no other options seems to be what I'll find,
and it really makes me sick.

I could paint a picture of serenity and love
in a vast and epic view.
I seem to have none of the above
and I want you to have mine too.

Call me bitter.
Call me jealous.
Call me what you will.

None seem to understand what I am getting at,
but hopefully soon you will.

Let me take you back a decade or so.
A young, fat, spotty faced teen
thinks one day he will sometime know
love and *** through another person instead of sticky magazines.

He wastes his time looking for another soul
for years upon years until he is no longer a boy.
His short, wide ***** finally finds a hole
and it brings him great joy.

He thought *** was great hoping to do it again,
although for a while it didn't much to his chagrin.
He caves in and spends money on ill gotten ******,
sadly he he gets bored and quickly finds it to be a filthy chore.

At his wits end, suicidal and sad
wanting nothing but a woman's love,
things were looking bad
until something came out of the darkness, an angel from above.

She was young and beautiful,
he could not deny.
The good times were bountiful
and he never told a lie.

He was happy and angst free for around 8 months
but the angel was a traitor and he was a putz.
A drunken ******* with no remorse.
The end had come and run the course.

Call it sad
Call it tragic
Call it what you will

I now understand it
and I hope you do too.

Now he travels this barren sea
of bros and hos and endless stupidity
with no hope, no cares,
no *** and no love.

Wishing he could do something with another
instead of hate.
He needs a new lover.
He needs a new mate.

"****!" he shouts with a frog in his throat,
"Why can't I be happy while everyone gloats?"
In is defense, life isn't quite fair
to those without muscles and dye in their hair.

And now all he does is silently weep,
listen to Elliott Smith, and shout in his sleep.

Call him an emo
Call him a loser
Call him what you will.

The moral is for you to quit being arrogant and judgmental, slutty and stupid.
There are men and women out there who wish they could.
I tend to lose days when my eyes stick, ****** Haze, I couldn't tell you the last meal I ate, or how many hours I've been awake, just that the days and nights have been a passing phase, no more than light change, I've always been a night owl anyway.

See my life started spiralling when she died and I cried hard enough, but not for as long as I need and now my heart is barely beating unless my lips are pointed at fire, and sometimes the flames are men 13 years older, sometimes the flames are tips of cigarettes and my own arm because I'm manic and driving and I'll barely feel it.

I feel nothing and everything all at once.

 Usually, this is when I tell you I met some boy who made my heart stop beating so quickly, when I would tell you how his kisses soothed my burns, but this, is not that story

I met a man who kissed softly, who touched with purpose but delicacy. Who tasted my soul before my body, and made his chest a place I long for... but cannot reach.

My hands hurt from pounding on the walls inside myself, I want to let him in, but my body breaks into shake, my body shudders at the idea of being left again, my voice barely makes out "I love you" before my mind starts racing with what it will look like when he leaves.

I drafted a poem the other night and all I could get down was that the poem I write when he loves me, will never be as good as the one I wite when he leaves, and I still believe that's true, no one has ever shown me a love beautiful enough to write well, or maybe I've just not had enough practice.

It's days like this that I wonder if I knew what time it was, would I still be thinking of you, if I knew what day of the week it was, would I still be stuck in your bed, with your smoke, and your smell. I can't remember the last time I felt so intoxicated without a line, I speed faster from your touch than the red bull and adderall, but love, I crash harder than 3 day binge when you leave

They say addiction will make you forget how to love, but you are a much more dangerous vice.
Haven't posted on here I'm ages, welcoming myself back.
(n.) The low rumble of distant thunder
The sky soon shall shed its tears,
I sit outside I have no fear.
I imagine myself on the pale hot shore,
wiggling my toes in white sand,
laughing at the idea of rain.

What numbskull could think it would rain?
I have heard no thunder
but my ears were full of sand.
I did not feel my eyes fill with tears.
I made my bedroom door the shore
and I was an ocean people would fear.

I had never felt this much fear
clouds filled my eyes and down came the rain.
The storm now covered every inch of the shore
and my words became the loudest thunder.
I awake in my bed, wet from my tears
and I wish I was in the sand.

Oh, I wish I was in the sand,
not drowning in a puddle of my own fear,
not filling my lungs with salt-like-sea water tears.
My wishes are wicked away like sprinkled summer rain.
They are as far away as the low rumble of distant thunder.
They come and go as often as the shore.

I open my door, greeted by the rising dawn shore
and I step on the carpet like it is the white sand.
There is no more thunder,
but there is still fear.
I sit on the back porch, and feel the morning summer rain,
and wonder why the sky here, always has tears.

The sky fills its own eyes with tears,
and the sunrise still reminds me of the shore.
I wish that in the morning, it was not allowed to rain,
that it had to be crisp and dry like summer sand.
That way I do not have to fear,
the low rumble of distant thunder.

Oh, the morning showers are the sky’s jealous tears, he wishes he could be a sun rising in the sand
He rumbles, ”The morning sun rising with the shore is so much more pleased, he never cries, he never weeps! Please do not fear,
the rain, but the rumble of low distant thunder.”

Your warm body, an exact mirror copy of your plump lips that kiss my mouth, I lay my head upon your chest, thighs, back, shoulder, any area where I believe I could sink into you and become enveloped in your supple, sweet, indulgent body.

Your body was the first I felt comfortable in. Your body is the only body I feel safe in. When I crawl into my place in the corner of your shoulder and your chest I hear your heartbeat slow, and I feel your breathing pace but when your arm grazes my shoulder my heart races and I do not know why.

Your illusive brown eyes, see they were not brown after I got close enough to see, your eyes were the darkest shade I had seen until you allowed me to graze the skin of your face and I was absorbed by the brilliant green that took me by surprise. How did I not notice the eyes before me? These eyes so unlike what I had learned before, I assumed you had to have known magic to preform such an illusion.

Your warm heart.

This heart that you allowed me to caress, allowed me to kiss, allowed me to love. This heart is what I am reaching for when I sink into your body, searching for my safe within your chest, my strength within your shoulder, my passion within your thigh, I am always searching for the things you allow me to feel. And you lead me to them every time. You've never allowed me to look in the dark, without your guiding hands, I still do not understand how you walk so calmly in the dark, I swear if must be magic, some amazing illusion.
For Karissa Nicole

Blunt force trauma
a blow to my psyche from your hammer of hands who pounded into my mind making me fear your preconceived ideas of my undying faith to your never ever loving thoughts about my, then, innocence. so many times-


How many times did I trust the snake who hung, from the oh sweet forbidden fruit who's aftertaste bit me every time?
Who's deep rooted poison made me a pile of decaying flash, leaving me with a smell that drew all vultures to my feet.


Every ******* one swarmed my flesh, biting, marking me with their jagged teeth that covered the tip of every finger, that kept the skin bloodied and bright red for identification.


The ID of the body I see in the mirror, Jane Doe to myself, and target to the man who mangled my soul even more that it's vessel. Who's voice rattled my bones and hands cracked the chest casing under my already blue and pruple skin he kissed with his knuckles just-
Just enough.


Enough of me he became and the red of my skin was no longer his favorite and I longed for my red to change hue and I checked its tone when I dipped into the rivers beneath my skin and all I did was make myself a prisoner to the body I painted different ****** shades to make him want me.

But my red turned fall and I was no longer a color he could see, but a place he had never been and my characteristics were as mysterious as the reasons I thought I deserved red.


Blunt Force Trauma
slam poem
My greatest condolences to the woman who loves me.

My body fears your love of me and constantly repeats the mantra of you leaving but you seem to stand even closer when I break. You tell me every time you aren't going anywhere but the pure unfamiliarity is because you, are the single thing I have ever loved, and never hated.

My greatest condolences, because I'm hard to love.

Your hands graze the body that I live in that I refuse to own. I imagine them painting my soul, covering the black holes with the colors of fall. You tell me you love every inch and I wonder about the centimeters. I take your kiss like a pill used to subside the symptoms of his neglect.

My greatest condolences, because I never believe you at first.

People are not medicine but your face helps me sleep more than ambien ever did and no, your are not going to cure me but I will survive. I do not need a cure, I need management. I take you every night before bed and wake up thinking about your arms caressing my side, yes, I said MY side. I'll admit that this body is my own as long as you're touching it, as long as your hands are soft on my skin.

My greatest condolences because you are the prescription that cannot skip
**** every person who ever said "don't romanticize self harm"

**** every person who just stared and never asked how I was

And **** those friends who never helped, who never even cared to bring it up when I gave myself stitches in their ******* bathrooms.

There is nothing romantic about the slashing of your own flesh. There is NOTHING beautiful about the change of skin tone on my legs from scar upon scar. There is nothing romantic about self harm but the love of my life can touch my scars and I can ******* undress for once without hiding.

She can graze and stare and one day she kissed.
She kissed and she kissed and she ******* kissed until my eyes burned and I was shattered. She ******* broke my ribs when she touched them and punctured my lungs when her lips plunged into my valleys of pink and purple and I wanted nothing more than my scars kissed.
I wanted nothing more than to be ******* loved and my pain to be ******* recognized and romanticized until I couldn't feel it anymore.

So **** those who said don't romanticize self harm.

Because I am scared and weak and sad and I want to be swooned and coddled and treated like the wounded bird I am. My wings were clipped with my own hands and she desperately tries to heal them with every ******* kiss.

And I can feel the bones form and the feathers grow

I was a ******* crow and she made me a dove.
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