My love for you is like my heart.
You won't be able to see it,
but it's there,
beating silently.

I'm crying on the inside..

seems like the only thing I can control as of late.
I blink both eyes until I see stars
and hope I will see something worthy of myself.

My breathing has slowed...

this anxiety in my chest makes me aware
of the damage it has caused me.
Fourteen years ago I made some progress
and then repression became a warm hand gun
I liked to sleep with at night.

Someone took advantage of me...

and now my mind likes to do the same-
knows I am weak in this instant
knows I can break more times than rebuild.
knows I will sit here and makes these same analogies
until everyone tires of my poetry.

I tried to think of things differently...

but all that comes out are the same words
just in different order
and it seems my mind likes to run circles
around this idea of normalcy.
it also seems like it doesn't exist
because just when I'm on the brink of sanity
my mind likes to remind why it's never ******* possible.

Seems I'm too ****** again...

the only words my vocabulary seems to remember
are the ones people deem as less intelligent
and I start to wonder if that can be defined
by the numbers in my bank account
or in my gpa this semester-
if so, i think I'm doing aright.
if not, which is the case-
I think i'm growing stupid.


Meet in the middle again...

somewhere between empty caskets
and getaway trains
I'm not sure which way I want to go.
My mind says get me out of here
and my feet won't stop running towards the exit.
Conflict and inconsistency are bred into my family,
my genetics are lined so neatly with tragedy.
Seems I am ****** either way.


Breed me into existence
and I will breathe you empty in this instance....


These words forms paragraphs
I do not know the meaning of
and I share this to make sense of it all.
I fall into the seems of myself
and no needle can trace the mistake I have made.
The giant hole inside of my track record
cannot be redone with sharp objects-
believe me, I've tried.


End me here before the road does it for me...

I'm feeling exhausted from lack of progress
and this feeling inside of me now has no origin
no originality- it's just sitting there.
Waiting for me to understand why it is.
But I can't.
I'm not even sure why I am here
these stories are an accurate representation
of my current state of mind
and I'm not even using any metaphors-
this is just the way my mind works now.


I bred myself into bipolar
and made anxiety out of my animosity.
I start to wonder how much better
I would've felt if I had some stability-
probably a lot less crazy,
but look at all this mess I've made
and look how good it makes me feel-
look at the difference it's made them feel.

Turn this repression into progression
and watch it flip to poetry,
feed me-
I'm dying to hear your words.

I wake up in agony, somewhere today, where my hands fail to recognize the creases on your skin. It started abandoning the memory of what it's like to hold you. And as my fingers brush across your palms, its folds are some unfamiliar braille.

Then a streak of your scent pierces sheer through my conscious and reminds my heart. Suddenly, its beats are the rhythm that used to guide our feet to glide in synchrony in our waltz; it guides my steps, little by little, to when and where it all began: that once upon a yesterday, you held me close to your chest and made me listen to the orchestra of your breath-- until I awake and you're humming a different symphony.

It agonizes me, and my eyes that rummage for the love prints I impressed on your lips, that you hum it so merrily.