On Christmas Eve I was talking to my brother

It was 2:30 in the morning

We had both been drinking.

I read him one of my poems.

That one about surviving myself.

It sparked a conversation.

The tough kind.

About suicide.

I told him I truly believed most people

Dont WANT to die

They just want the pain to stop

I told him it was a cry for help.

He told me my first attempt was not.

He said with tears rolling down his cheeks

"You were done that night."

With tears now streaming down my cheeks I replied

"I can't talk about this. Not tonight."

"I know." He cried

"Did you ever get help after that night? After seeing me like that? Did you talk to someone?"

"I couldnt talk about it. It was too hard."

At this point we're both bawling.

I wrapped my arms around him.

I apologized.

See that's the thing about attempting suicide and surviving.

If you're lucky enough

To survive

You have to witness the pain everyone around you feels.

Because of you.

I never use to think it was selfish.

Not until Christmas Eve.

I broke my brother.

6 years ago.

And he's still haunted.

Artists are often
broken people
using the fragments of themselves
to create something new
and although
being healed
feels so complete
sometimes i want to be broken again
sometimes i want open wounds
so i can use the blood
to paint sunsets
so i can use the torn off pieces of skin as a canvas
so i can carve
masterpieces with the jagged bones left behind
but I can't bring myself to break my own heart in the name of Art

My sea is far away
let's meet somewhere closer
under the same cloud.

My blue water is for the sun.
I sing beneath the waves.

My rose is for the show
I am imbued in the fragrance.
Love is in the air
the scent wafts into my heart.

My sky is open wide,
beyond the rainbow on the high,
beyond the peacock's eyes.
It embraces the earth,
reaching far and wide.

As the wind blows along the way,
flying beneath the endless blue,
a mesmerising sight from the bird's-eye,
a butterfly slips out and begins to sway!

Poetry is the string
         looping through and
         weaving out
the needling pain

It knits a beautiful
         patchwork, coated with
         colorful patterns
our fingers trace

threads of our lives
         create designs
a shining::
shimmering::
or dulling
our emotions blend.

her very nature burned alive,
taking everything around her with it.

and when she shined the brightest,
the whole world was set on fire.

elated
a flying feeling
soaring
soft and light
cottony

life is long
but you are forever
raining hope
upon the weary

fly high, clouds
and we'll fly with you

Here you are awaiting my inevitable return from work

With your dough eyed expression, purring static moans

Eager, for another pouch of 'Darcey's Fish Mix'

Unwillingly able to backoff, so I can find some clearance

In order to serve you, my pets; my overbearing bundle of fur

Whom I truly love, forever and always.