and i write and i write
and yet
no amount of ink and paper
could ever
scribble off the feelings i had
from the things
i was writing about

And here i am telling myself that everything's my fault while people tell me that it isn't

But every problem or situation that I've caused wouldn't have happened anyways if i wasn't so blind, so stupid

And yet no one cared enough to check up on me

So who's really at fault here?

I just woke up from a nap and it felt like the nap i had back in December, when i felt like i didn't belong anywhere and sleep was my only friend.

Except it's not december.

It's september, it's too early for this, this was the time i genuinely suffered and went insane and just wanted a hug and yet...

And yet, no one noticed, they never do.

I think im gonna go back to sleep.

I am a wildcard that cries silently when drawn, but serenades you still.
I put bandaids on my mouth that speak.
I poison words and call them poetry.

I survive on sorrow,
I suffocate myself with salt-stained pillows, hands inked down at the excuse of my rage. Maybe I've known love, but all my texts are some I could never send.
My journals and notes are tired of hearing the same names over and over again.

I've tattooed "you made me a poet" on my bones, but I'm confused how many people I should label as "you."

But one day;
I'll watch the sky,
it will be sunset,
and the world around me will be painted in yellow.
And I love yellow.
And soon I will realize that
I will be okay.