I feel like I'm drowning in blood,
Blood that is not my own, but is all too familiar.
The bodies, the faces, the experiences, and the blood is all too familiar, and all too painful to fully absorb.
What starts off as a puddle soon becomes an ocean that will either swallow me whole
Or deliver me to deaths door.
I feel like we are moving towards an inevitable, Devastating, ****** end,
Where blood floods the street.
But by then whose blood will it be?
Those of my circle or theirs

Long ago.

Possibly when I was eleven years old.

I lit the first match.

That light fueled the fire in my heart.

Smeared my soul with darkness.

I watched everything  burn.

Burn.

Burn.

Burn.

Poetic pyro’s .

That’s what we called our group.

Watch the flames flicker as our art took its shape.

My first kiss was stolen as I watched the flames flicker across his face.

I watch.

I grow.

I learn.

With every building.

With every match.

My soul curls.

My soul darkens.

I burn.

Empty is the heart, full is the mind, the present is in front, so don’t love behind.

give me your hand.

i’ll give you my time, waste my love and I will not lie.

I will leave.

Never to return

Never to love again.

Experience is the best teacher.

You will,

They will and that

I have learned.

Take the knife out my back.
Take back the bullets from my mind.
I can only heal if I pardon you from your love crimes.

Somewhere between winter and fall,

I realized I loved you.

I had said the words countless times,

like a mantra,

or a great idea that couldn’t fail.

But it did.

When I realized it was love,

I found myself laughing.

I, the strong one, the one who wouldn’t break,

was dying of the sick irony that I love you,

and you didn’t love me.

Between winter and spring,

I got out of that rut.

Of wanting you,

Needing you.

Missing you.

I thawed out from winters cold indifference,

and sprang to life in the spring,

accepting that it was love,

that I could love,

that I did,

and that the idea of love created that bond,

an attachment of sorts if you think of it that way.

Between winter and spring.

I stopped needing you.

Between now and eternity,

I can never stop loving you.

I can’t thank you enough for what you taught me.

I always felt love made me weak,

but it made me strong, I was able to pick myself off the ground.

You helped mold me,

you painted a piece of the woman that will be me.

Between winter and spring,

I thought I was going crazy,

Now as I move to spring, and summer,

the ideas and notions of love no longer scare me or make me feel weak.

Between winter and spring,

you made me strong.

How drunk are we?
How much do we regret?
If love is the answer.
How much did we forget?
If it’s magic,
How much can we learn?
If a magician never shows their secret,
then who do we burn?

It always happens in the rain.
The same phone call.
Or the nervous shuffling of feet.
The familiar look of sorrow and relief all masked behind traitorous eyes.
The break up.
I’m not quite sure if they all meet up and trade tips
on how I handle break ups worse.
I keep my cool,
but it always rains when it occurs.
The smooth petals of rain sprinkling down my face
as I nod, trying to be congenial, knowing this time
that being perfect simply wasn’t enough.
So I kiss the rain drops,
allowing them to be the false tears
that help cleanse my soul.
We can not be friends.
I lie for the first time to each man.
Saying that we can be friends,
knowing my feelings run deep and far
like the birth of the Nile.
I befriend the rain
until the stars take me home.