I thought I outgrew it.
It was just a phase fueled by teenage angst,
and I just turned 24.

I figured it wasn't gonna last.
The strong emotions were good writing material
but now I don't know what to use these emotions for.

I have a job now.
I have a house to pay for, bills to settle,
I don't have time to feel sad.

Does every person who took their life feel this?
A brief sense of comfort in feeling a familiar thing
tying you back to every thought you once had.

I heard:
One of the houses on my block was broken into.
Glass shards everywhere, broken locks on the floor, the burglars knew what they were doing.
One of my neighbors called out to me when I moved in -
"Keep your doors locked at night, there are thieves in this area"

After I heard that, my mind went straight to the thought of owning a gun.
Needing to own a gun.
My house would feel much safer with the gun in the safe.
I would feel much safer with a gun.

Pointed to my temple.

I've rehearsed it over and over in my head
I have no idea who I'd need to convince but I managed to convince myself.
It's like a silver lining to this entire situation.
I'd keep it hidden in a safe or behind the books on my bookshelf.
Owning a gun would let me fight off intruders in my home.

Or blow the voices out of my head.

6 out 10 homes have a gun.
I would feel much safer with a pistol somewhere in my house.
Just a means to an end.
An equalizer.
Something to grab in case I really need to.

End it all.

I'm a writer but lately everyone's been telling me to write something i can perform.
In front of an audience, in front of a crowd, head held high standing proud, my written verses said out loud cooking up a calm before the storm.
In my best suit on top of a stage performing written word, slurred stanzas revolting in my ribcage painting you a world in black ink.
Listening to the clink of the sea of beverages served for everyone here to listen to me lessen my verbal baggage before it makes me sink.

I'm a writer and I'm writing something I can perform for people to listen to.
For fifteen years I've been writing poetry to be read privately and it's the only thing I have ever known to do.
Spoken word poetry and written poetry are very different things if you start to compare the two.
Written poetry captures the intimacy of reading the three main words for romance while spoken word lets you hear the voice of someone saying I love you.

I have developed a genuine fondness for reading poetry alone to myself in the middle of the night.
But spoken word gives me this new feeling of affection for that one person performing verbal art in front of the spotlight.

Written poetry reminds me of Shakespeare's "parting is such sweet sorrow" read from a letter and knowing things will no longer be the same.
While spoken word poetry is Edgar Allan Poe's raven visiting me at night but instead of saying "nevermore" it croaks your name.

I was an observant child.
I learned a lot of things growing up.
Things kids are not supposed to witness are tattooed on the back of my mind.
I learned the importance of discipline as fear was used to keep me in line.
I learned that lying is only bad if you get caught and the truth can be bent as far as you'd like to make your stories align.

A lot of my parents' lessons made me learn things like love is earned not given. A cruel truth they taught to a kid who was only seven.
I learned that I do not deserve their love or attention unless I do something, unless I accomplish the things to make me worth their affection.
I was a smart child. I was admired when all I wanted was to be loved.

My parents raised me. Growing up all I wanted was to be like my dad but now I'm worried I see him in my rage whenever I get mad. I learned to throw a punch before i learned how to apologize, I learned how to act strong when all along no one told me it was okay to be weak, I learned how to smile before I learned how to be happy and I learned to shout before I learned how to speak.

I am not a child anymore.
People would commend me throw compliments at my way as if not knowing a candle kills itself faster the brighter it burns.
I open up about the things I learned and they tell me it may be wrong but it made me strong. It made me stronger and it helped me become the artist I am today but I was a child. I did not want to be stronger I needed to be safe.


I learned a lot of things growing up. I learned that sadness felt familiar so I'm relieved when tragedy happens. I sometimes purposely set myself up for failure to at least have a reason to be sad. Self sabotage became my language and boy am I good at speaking. I learned I wanted to **** myself but still learning how to make it easier for the people I love when I'm gone so I slowly make them hate me.

I learned that I am not a good person,
I learned that my parents tried to be. They're still trying.
When you are not fed love on a silver spoon you learn to lick it off knives and maybe that's why every poem I write hurts me more than it hurts anyone else.

I've always thought of it as a dance
As we prance around the sound of our stares against each other.
But what would I do when I knew there was just no music to dance to when we're together.

If love is art
Then let me be your canvas.
Caress me with your brush dipped in lies, mark me with the things you wish to do.
Wound me with the expectations and limitations you envision and I will bleed all the colors for you.
Be my artist and I'll die a martyr to be your masterpiece.
As I cease to be myself, cutting my life piece by piece until you can look at me at ease and find me beautiful enough to please.
Beautiful enough to please you
In your artistic hunger for something stronger, as you ponder upon what to do with me.
Call me your artwork,
Set me aside and let my heart work on the broken pieces of myself I tore away for you to see.
You've left your mark in my skin and your colors in my blood within as I struggle to remember who I was before your artistic touch.
Being myself felt like a sin with you around as you bound my hands to keep me from being such.
Keep me from being me.
Keep me from being such as myself as I shelf away all the pages that you no longer wanna see.

Love is art
And you were an amazing artist.
I just wish I was your favorite masterpiece.

Oh heavenly bodies, what secrets do you keep?
What enchantment do these bright entanglements hold?
Do these stars from afar keep tabs on the rays of the days of faces i meet?
Do they watch over me, rooting for my story waiting for my fate to unfold.?

Oh heavenly bodies, what whispers do you hear?
Of silent prayers, mournful cries, oh shooting stars, tell me what you know.
Of lovers’ lies, of strangers’ love, of unsure promises made clear.
Oh cosmic bodies, hear me now. Tell me where to go.