You might be wondering where I've been
And how it is that I got here
I've been on the next to last step from the end
Could I make it any clearer

Since life has lost all meaning
I've been meaning to check you out
But first I have a riddle
Why is life riddled with so much doubt

The progress that we're making
Are we making it all up
The way things are going lately
We need a bit of better luck

I'm mixing greens with yellows
To make the color blue
Why am I always the fella
That's nervous next to you

There's a lighthouse on the point
That guides the sailing ships
Where all my needs and all my wants
Will be different in the end

*So don't look to deep inside of me
For my soul is paper thin
Like I said my needs and wants
Will be different in the end
Before they're blown off by the wind...

Once I offered you my heart, knowing it was too bruised, too ugly to meld with your imperfect soul. You looked at it with eyes that spoke of dark horizons less travelled and handed it back with trembling caution, too mindful of the searing pain caused by it's many shards. I loved you then, as I do now, though the mention of such things is forbidden within our tight circle of two. I fear your loss as I fear myself, fully and without caution, though now only your traces remain as friendship flounders upon the utterances of my foolish mouth.

He forgot how to help himself.

He forgot how to love,accept,and respect himself.

He now loves feeling his pain,
and wishing things were still the same.
Exchanging brains,
for drugs with names,
that will land him under the ground,
or inside of a cage.

It’s a crime to wait,
for life to take,
the righter path,
with a mind that hates.
At night he’ll pace
his mind will race,
yet sit in place,
designed to waste.

Why does he do it?
So self destructive.
He claims he isn’t an addict,
but isn’t above it.
The future is bleek,
so no need to recover.
A bleeding heart bruises,
and is misleading in color.
At the moment before,
the moment he snaps,
and right before he’d lose it,
*his music *oozes from the loosest of nooses.

You hate my poems
You say they take me from you
that they're pointless
a waste of time
maybe you're right.
You read them,
just the words as they fall,
and say you get nothing
just syllables.
I have lost count
of the sighs and eyerolls,
the you have no talents,
they sit in a memory box
along with the times you've asked me to stop.
Stop.
Just like that.
Stop pouring myself onto paper,
Stop looking for beauty in darkness,
Stop healing.
You prefer me broken, fragile, dependant,
the girl you took from nowhere to god knows where
a once pretty, broken thing
to hang silently from your arm
while you talk proudly of the soul that you saved.
You fear that my writing will end us.
I fear that my stopping will end me.