Love me like it's the last thing you'll ever do

Internal violence will be the ultimate death of us all.

Stained.
Like the blood on my hands have dried to a crust.
My heart had thawed but now has freezer burn.
The strands of blonde that were bleached last year.
The words that I won't forget.
Stained.
Like the white dress that has now turned yellow.
The dried candle wax that won't come off the carpet.
Don't love me, or I will become hard.
Don't leave me
Or I will become,
Stained.

Cracked images
Stained glass
Each piece arranged
In an interlacing jaggered masterpiece
Tears fall
Tracing paths
Highlighting the intricate symbols
Liquid crystals in the dying light
Sparkling pearls upon living glass
Dexterous additions
To the visual symphony.

The storm grows
The heavens pour
Colours flash amongst the greys
It tastes like salt.

I somehow forget how to write with a simple pen or pencil to express my feelings delight

I sometimes realize I'm not really a poetic rhythm to ring the ears of the people while being under hypno-tizum.

I see how people use their imaginations and creativity to create the fondest stories in history.

I can relate to the angry/hapiness/sadness that i read that sometimes makes my wrists bleed purposely.

Either way poem/poems are one of a kind  that people cannot duplicate unless we have similar minds.

                            sealed with a kiss
                                          Xoxoxo

When a poem you love gets little attention
But the ones you think **** receive all the mention
It's irritating when a ****** piece trends
It's like hanging with jerks instead of your friends
It's like ordering a steak, and getting beef jerky
Like trying to pass off a chicken as a turkey
Why do my least favorite poems get the praise?
The world sure works in mysterious ways

Kind souls reach out and try to touch my heart
But I always push them away
I'm too focused on me, myself, and my art
And my constant days of disarray

I live as a loner, a drifter through souls
I never do stay very long
I despise feeling like I have little control
And I can't stand hearing I'm wrong

So I live in my head and I'm friends with myself
It's a pathetic and ugly way to be
But it's rare that I can get along with someone else
So I only hang out with me

My heart was once soft, fleshy, and pink
But now it's a cold, rigid stone
I lose all my friends while I write and I drink
I'm so slowly dying alone

if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
otherwise, don’t even start.

if you’re going to try, go all the
way. this could mean losing girlfriends,
wives, relatives, jobs and
maybe your mind.

go all the way.
it could mean not eating for 3 or
4 days.
it could mean freezing on a
park bench.
it could mean jail,
it could mean derision,
mockery,
isolation.
isolation is the gift,
all the others are a test of your
endurance, of
how much you really want to
do it.
and you’ll do it
despite rejection and the
worst odds
and it will be better than
anything else
you can imagine.

if you’re going to try,
go all the way.
there is no other feeling like
that.
you will be alone with the
gods
and the nights will flame with
fire.

do it, do it, do it.
do it.

all the way
all the way.
you will ride life straight to
perfect laughter,
it’s the only good fight
there is.

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.