That's what it feels like
Depression
I've never really talked about
My depressed days that much
Its just a part of me
I can never really reveal to other people
This is hard
It never really leaves you you know
Its like your just numb
You can lay there for hours staring
At the ceiling
Doing nothing
Thinking nothing
Or you can be
Lying on your bedroom floor
Tears streaming down your face
Crying silently alone
Burning all the memories
You want to never remember
But somehow can never let go of
You can have the blade in your hand
Running across your skin creating
Lines of red
Lines of pain
Lines of anger
Of heartbreak
No one even knows
You hide it so fucken well
The pain is unbearable
But you can't let it show through
Smile
Laugh even
No one notices
No one notices the scars
You keep your jumper on to hide them
Even on hot summer days
Your skirt hides the lines on your thigh
No one notices
No one knows that the happiest person they know
Truly isn't
They're broken
Cut up
Terrible

I seen beneath my eyelids
I was a black silhouette
of an entity outlined in
platinum aura eclipse
and the visions fell
far & fell hard
from a teardrop chandelier
hanging from the ceiling
in my skull &
shattered
the crude
jewel encrusted
crescent floor

then thunder roared
in the distance &
erupted the crown,
unleashing a copious
explosion of white
gold light
& my skeleton
sheds the snakeskin
& escapes
thru the hole in my head;

just crawls right out,

bubbles up & becomes
a pink heart shaped balloon
& it floats

up. out. away.

creeps thru one of
the holes in the ozone,
straight into the sun
& burns up.

star burst.

&  that's soul.

When you are a poet
you don't place yourself on a pedestal
don't spit venomous hate
think fellow writers are dismal.

When you are a poet
you don't feel a superiority
fellow writers you gleefully berate
make yourself perversely witty.

When you are a poet
your heart is a little more wide
you don't fume and fret
readers are not on your side.

If you are a poet
you know better than to be arrogantly vain
don't carry ego's sinful weight
but let your art pour through your pen.

I’ve tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
“you can’t wear red lipstick”
made me believe
I never wanted to in the first place.

for every time instead
I’ve stained my lips with cherries
learning how to tie the stems
so I can slip forget-me-knots
to the back of your throat—
do you feel my restriction now?

the razors that fly off my tongue
perk thorns on my skin,
another down stroke on my wrist
will teach me that
you were right,
shyness is a virtue.

no need to speak,
go spend one hundred dollars
and some percent for tax
to cover up,
even though I’m sure your mother told you
that cotton stains.

so make it black.
get your hair stuck
in the zipper of that sundress
and pray as you pull it out
that it will lose its pigmentation
in the process
mark a down stroke
for killing two flowers
for one bouquet.

hold it
close your eyes and throw it back,
I know we shouldn’t be wearing white anyway
but tradition can take a lot out of you
like what you really think—
don’t say **** in public.

instead drag your first impressions
all the way to the altar
and dress in your Sunday best
a flower on your lapel
clear on your lips
a stroke for the neat decline
of the son

I tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
my image
was my fault.