they called me crazy
for refusing to pick flowers
for saving spiders from the kitchen
and for talking to birds rather than humans

they called me crazy
for clawing at my wrists
for eating my own words
and for tearing out my hair for allowing myself to feel

nothing ever satisfies
when you worry about the endless amount
of "they"
and "them"
and what "they" think

nothing ever satisfies
when "they" meet your demons
and "they" make a home
in your own ******* ribs

when i am
not thinking
of how much i
miss you
i am thinking
of how much
better
it would be
if you were
here

lives
touch,
pass,
and
continue.

these words
are used
to describe,

and you
pin them
to my
forehead.

these words
are used
to describe,

*but i will
not
let them
describe
me.

i did not
even know
that you could
love and hate
someone
at the same time,
even more so
did i not know
that i could feel
both emotions
so much
and so deeply -
together.

i poured my
heart
into a jar
with a
hole
in the bottom

when the puppet
finally
breaks free
of his strings
you'd better be
careful
that he
does not
choke you
with them

this is me,
leaving you.
not because
i do not love you,
but because
i love myself,
too.

i am a
horse
on a
carousel
with four legs
built to run
but i insist
on retracing
the same
circle

waking up
is like
coming up for air -

but after you take
that first breath,
youre ready
to go back
under.

what is a human
but a cosmic spec
of semi-wanderlust
destroying the planet
because they believe
they rule it
while if the human race
ceased to exist
the world would
flourish

why rot in hell
when you can rot anywhere

save the heat
for warming your bones
after the flesh has decayed

my body
does not belong
to me
so stop
treating my actions
like my own

i learned
that my heart
is as large
as my fist,
but that
doesn't mean
that it is
as strong

in a cluster
of trees
beneath fingers
of sunlight
a forgotten
cemetery
lies decrepit
beside an old
back road
named after
an indian tribe

most people
are afraid
of being
forgotten
but i wish
to be buried
in the
forgotten
cemetery
surrounded by
crooked stakes
of rusted
wraught iron
engulfed by ivy

and i wish
to let the
earth
consume me
oncemore

i watch you
fall at the feet
of those
who will never
know your name

im here
im real
i love you
and you
are distracted

i cant imagine
myself
loving anyone else
but i can imagine
you
loving anyone

you were made of stars;
im honored you tore me apart.

and all those times
you kissed me
you were just
putting your
thumb
over my
lips

even the night
is not dark
as long as the moon
is in the sky
and this
is what you are
to me

running your hardest
still doesnt mean
you wont slip and fall

its easier
to fall back into
old habits
than to fall out off them

because who falls
out of a hole -
especially
when you arent even sure
where it begins
and where it ends?

you appear
in a
breeze

rustling
a few
of my
leaves

only to
disappear
as soon
as i
remember
you

you are a
hidden oasis
and as i
pause
to drink,
i find that
you are
only an
illusion

they always say
to set free
the things you love,

but they never mention
that you will still
love
what you set free.

who are you
but a few molecules
of the universe
stitched together

what is your voice
bur a single vibration
lost within the echoes
of a thousand more

you tell me that i matter,
that i am different,
that i am special,

but what am i
but a single
strand
of endless DNA
that could still function
after the death
of my chromosomes

when i am alone
i stand firm in myself
like a boulder in the ocean

but when i love
the tide is too strong
and i am too often swept away

why do i try so hard
to formulate my own center of gravity
if i so easily let someone else
become the moon around which i orbit

if i am a planet
with my own biome
why do i let someone else
control the weather

i am growing older
and i cannot flourish
without letting someone else
come along and destroy my garden

i am alive

and you are but a
copy
of a copy
of a copy
of a copy
of a copy
of a copy

that* (pronoun)
\ˈthat, thət\

used by the misunderstanding to describe the depth of thought and/or emotion experienced by the reader upon reading poetry that has been ripped directly from the author's soul

and all the times
that you screamed
to the mirror
telling it
that it wasnt your fault
you still cant forgive yourself
even though
you did nothing wrong.