I do not wish to say things that cover up the blemishes of the reality of the faults in ourselves. I want our flaws to burn passionately against the wind in front of the eyes of those who do not understand.
Constantly move against the grain and fight to be more than who you are. Even if it means sacrificing things you normally wouldn't; like your time. It is okay to lead a life that most people do not agree with. Because in the end, we are all human beings who have, or will hang onto the idea of perfection. My advice to you, is to not let this become who you are. Do not be like them.

Tell her about
The time you saw your
Mother do a line
In front of you;

Remind her
Why you haven't
Been able to walk straight
Since.

And don't forget
About all the times
She left you
Astray.

She could only ever express
How much she loved you
When she loosened
Her grip around a syringe.

It eats away at her.

She never wanted
To love a substance
More than
Her own son.

Don't look at her
Hands and how rapidly
They shake -

She desperately tries
To make it work;
To make it stop,

But how many nights
Are you willing to wait
For the moment she wakes up,

Or for the moment she is
Okay again.

The reality is that you won't,

Because it has been
Three and a half years,
And you are still reliving
The same ******* memories

You were never able to
Let go of.

Lick your fingers
And turn the page

Stop thinking about the fact that glass shattering in the background reminds you of how long it's been since you've held a heart

That wasn't
Your own

My lips still taste
Like concrete
From the day you kicked me
To the curb.

I never knew that
Falling in love with someone's voice
Was possible until I walked in a room
And sat at a wooden desk
And listened to you speak.

Your voice was a symphony,
and I was the audience
Anxiously waiting for
A beginning and an end.

I wont ever forget it.

Someday soon
Your voice will
Turn into a
Distant memory,

And I'll write
A poem about
How it changed my life-

I will be the performer,
and you will be
The last song
I wrote.

The way I see it,
we were both each other's decorative
porcelain dolls.

Fragile, and if handled poorly,
would crack under the pressure
of the other.

We were both kept upon our shelves
only to collect dust,
which eventually got swept
underneath the rug anyway.

You undress depression in the way I
willingly take off my clothes when
I've had too much to drink.

You miss the days when the only
body you touched
wasn't your own,
and if a lover ever ****** you over,
you would want them to *******
like they owed you an apology.

It's funny how love is synonymous with mistake.
We're all biting out tongues over someone we hoped would
look at us in the same way
we looked at them.

You would hope that one day your
lover would acknowledge how
unbalanced you are without
your counterpart,
and if their silence meant stay,
then you would keep
the back door unlocked
just in case.