She was screaming
Pounding on the door
"Let me in!"
Knuckles ****** from the constant banging
Her voice was raspy and if you could see her
You would recognize that her eyes were burning from all of the tears
And her cheeks were flushed from her efforts
Let me in, she cries
Let me in...
But as you two stared in each other's eyes that day
And you continued to tell her of nothing things, as you always do
She listened
You did not hear her begging,
Only because she did not ask you directly
But inside she was giving up
Leaning her back against the wall to the right of the entrance
Lifeless body and limbs weighted to the ground
One hand barely tapping the bottom of the door
Her eyes fighting to remain open
She is fading
She is giving up on you.

as i hit the floor i heard you scream "WHAT THE **** IS WRONG WITH YOU" and thats when i knew you didnt love me anymore. it wasnt when you punched me in the face or when you left me in the hospital after you cracked two of my ribs, or even when you left for two weeks and came back smelling like ****** perfume and ****. it was when you pushed me away in bitter disgust and left me lying in a pool of blood and tears. you were ****** up but i'll probably wake up missing you and if that isnt ****** up i dont know what is

Write a song and give it my name.
Write a poem, give it my beauty.

Oh beautiful flower, full of thorns, you so smells good in spring.

Write a song and sing it..
Scream it until you lose the voice.

Soft rose, you are so pretty, but you pricked me the fingers.

Writes this poem, shout it, whisper it.
Writte it, erase it, do it all over again.

So soft and fragile but so dangerous, you touched me and got pricked.

Write me a song and gives it my name.
Not love song honey, write a song which looks like me.

The pretty flower pricked you and now you want to burn her for that.
Boy, looks at what you made.
You want to burn the most beautiful thing that you saw by pride to have found stronger than you.
**Sadness.

Regret.

Nibbles away at the tiny corners of the conscious mind.

Preoccupying ones thoughts with remorse and somewhat desire.

Remorse over what is done
and what is to be done.

A desire
to do it again.

Regret.

Not a feeling rather a trait.
Its characteristic
embodied within the human

Its here, and its here to stay.

There is a new roof fitting itself to the sky,
sea-roughened and grey as the vast paving
I dropped teeth on as a child, lightheaded

and living faster. Outside, a steep hill drops sweet
like the dip of a spoon, and in this life I see
my own reflection. It may come from narcissism.

It may come from gut. But its momentum is trapped,
a statue on one foot, it asks to be uprooted. How can I
carve this future into something soft and creaseless?

If I was an artist, I could catch its outstretch—
I would pull the army by the hand, out from the dark
intrusive damp, and ask it to stay.

On the line, a white sheet takes hard gulps of air.
I'm quick to learn its rhythm.
But in the morning it has lost its breath;
in the morning there is a small damp circle
under my cheek.