and inside i was a tide
but all they saw were barely ripples
and inside i was screaming
but no one heard me begging there

And inside i was a mess
but they decided that my hair was neat
and that i was already clean
because they didnt see the shadows lurking under my eyes
or the dust collecting in my thoughts

and when i wasnt even hiding
when i knelt down and prayed
you said that you were always there
but you never dared to answer me

because i am still ******* here
and though i beg for you to let me go
i wake up and my heart still beats...
i thought you were always listening

and inside i was dead
how i wished that the outside
would show it

one crumb for you
and one for you.

i share this food,
the finest there is,
bought with
hard earned
hot cash,

in the hopes that y'all
stop mocking me.

you know i'm
completely
fearful of y'all
yet y'all seem
to take
advantage
of it.

parading around
and doing that funky walk
and giving me looks,
please stop.

take it!
take all the crumbs!
please just leave me
alone,
pigeons!

You say doctors will
make the best poets.
They will search your emotions
by the skin; cutting open to reveal
and revel
with surgical precison.
They will play with
heavy drugs and blades--
nothing shall hide beneath
the armors of bone and muscle.
They know the anatomy
of the heart too well.
They will find the things
you have hidden in your chest.

I say
doctors will never be poets.
They are too mechanical,
too fast with their edges
and ridges.
They cannot see the pain
as pain but merely as an anomaly.
That sadness is black bile
not melancholia.
They cannot sing to you
but only clammer in medical jargon.

Poets will use their imperfect words,
and perfect rhymes
to find the secrets of your rib cage
with ease.
They will find every flaw
of your broken body
and make it the best story
you've never heard.

Doctors,
they will put love to define as
a momentary rush of adrenaline,
an arrythmia for another human
caused due to an imbalance of the heart rhythm.

Poets will tell you
that love is the first jolt
of life for them.
They will say love is a state of euphoria
that takes those irregular rhythms to perfect symphonies.

Doctors say that
veins carry blood
devout of oxygen.
I say that they carry your broken emotions
to their feelings factory
to mend it within its beautiful catacombs.

All those doctors
will find and fix you
with perfect solutions.

And these poets
will do their best
to be your perfect solution.

flowers are effortlessly beautiful in life
and they are effortlessly beautiful in death
(there are some mornings when I can't
even bring myself to look in the mirror)
-

my fingers will burn
and the tips may even char
but im reaching
and im reaching
for the second brightest star

though, my heart is beating
so loud i hear it in my ears
and though my wrists
may be painted blue


why does it feel like death?