A poem—
is just one more
scrap of paper
that has sailed off the table
in a bottle
with a cry for help.

Who would’ve thought,
death could taste so good,
sweet light green,
hints of mint,
those deep purple undertones.

And the vibrating of a soul,
shaking loose an exterior,
misunderstood and abused,
but no more.

Those who haven’t,
may just turn back,
but here we are,
on the verge.

Of what?
there is no "why?"
not "because"
all of it for this.

just look forward,
none of that matters now,
i’m not coming back,
i’m not coming back.

i can be in a room full of people
and still feel completely alone

i can smoke a pack of cigarettes
and the buzz will not comfort me

i can cut myself open
and the blood will drip down
but i don't get scared
in fact i don't feel anything

i am always numb.

He's a writer for sure
Every ounce of him.
That's why he stopped
Drinking wine,
Except for Wednesdays
Of course.
He has a taste for
Cigarettes and the hard stuff.
The stuff that's going
To make him forget
About all the things
He's going to write about in the morning.
But really,
How could he forget
Every single moment
Of his entire life.
He's not arrogant
But **** the devil if he's humble.
No, he's just used to
Being kicked in the face.
And he's good at it.
So why stop now?
Every morning is a hangover
And every night
Is another reason
To write down everything
Because **** everyone
Who tells him no
He's too **** good at it.
Let's drink to that tonight.