You told me to study the word,
you gave me its meaning,

& I do not wish to fail.

I saw the word, & turned it to action.
I sliced it open, & turned it to poetry.

I do not wish to fail.

I made sure to remember it.
I performed it, & created it.
I lived it.

You may see it as a failure
but once again,
I passed.
I sat, hidden,
the word hovering over my left wrist, screaming,
gout.

In light I found only a melancholic ballad,
breaking bones I never knew I had,
bearing skin I thought I shed
With its words-
tender, true
traces of myself exposed within
its wicked lines
as if to say,
you’ve missed the mark,
with wasted words & a heavy heart.

Now you must bear the burden
of yourself,
once more.

friday night,
i gave in to a ubiquitous temptation
& watched as deep scarlet dripped into a
puddle of guilt.

saturday morning,
an analogous feeling greeted my bedside,
& i gave in.
empty house, running faucet, a voice telling me
everything would be okay.
i gave in to the water coffin,
yet couldn't keep myself down.
a passing interaction between me & my end.

I’m from empty lines
& potential poems,
from scattered words
& phrases so far up
I cannot grasp them.

I’m from the ink that bleeds from my pen,
a habit I’m still learning to break.

The stains left have
gotten in the way
& have diluted my legibility-
I can’t read my words anymore.

I’m from, “you’re mumbling”
every time I try to speak,
but words hold no meaning
& mine lack a fighting spirit.
They prefer the comfort of a womb.

Cigarette butts beside sprouting lilies,
so white against the dark music playing
in my head.
Skinny legs cast a deep shadow,
a lifeless field of grass
under a cloudless sky.

Scratches in dark wood-
a painful reminder
of the lone leaf next to me
having fallen prematurely,
a shallow shadow,
blanketing a shallow life.

I will wait,
quiet-mouthed & bloodless,
with pallid cheeks & shaking hands
that may never cease to remind me
that I am not right.
With words swirling just as the flakes I wait in do
in the dead of winter,
I wait
to see you alone.

I am afraid,
waiting, wordless
silent as the ******* lamb the righteous speak of.
Is there a God?
Hidden beneath a blanket of snow,
cold, still
waiting for you.

To see you alone.
Holding my breath in moving time,
but frozen in chained silence.
Bones, they quake &
skin feels foreign
in a familiar discomfort.
Silent, still
I wait for you.

I haven't written a **** thing lately.
I haven't said anything worth remembering because there is a soft hum in my head where my brain used to be.
I no longer hold the desire to speak,
& the only words that run through this empty space are,
"I want to die,"
"I want to die," tugging at me as I drag through the days,
constant & unyielding.

another monday afternoon.
plants tipped over,
pages of books torn,
messy closets & hangers on the floor-
none of which give the day purpose.
all a shade of grey.

Head is in overdrive
but that's just a fantasy because
my reality
has stripped me bare
of all I once shared.

Melancholic cloud in my mind,
slice it open,
give me peace
from thoughts I can no longer keep.

Keep me up,
ups & downs,
the fall lasts an eternity.
What a monotony
to feel free for a time-
short & delicate,
a slippery climb
that always secures the fall.

Want to **** myself
but don't know how,
how to save those I love from feeling.
There's no reason to care,
nothing can save me
& feelings are *******, anyway.

Wish I had a lock on my door.
I'd feel safer in my solitude
& death may come easier
when I know I can't let anyone in.

My peace is your pain
& without me,
your life may just be
a little easier.

Everyone's the same
& no matter how hard I try,
I can't get away
from the disease.

I often find I share the parts of myself I do not want
or never intended to have.

Too often the constriction of silence forces my lungs to breathe out words I'd rather keep in my head-
words I wish to take back.

My journal is no longer filled with free thoughts & the belief in fate
but rather,
wasted ink on words that feel similar to an empty home.

Too often I'm lost in my clouded disposition,
imitating poets I'll never measure up to,
& forgetting the purpose of poetry altogether.

My words may sound beautiful but couldn't be further from juxtaposing my truth-
a subtle illusion that seems to make all the difference.

If only this beauty was my reality,
because the truth is that I'm destroying myself.
& in this truth I find that
I like it.