dancing circles around thoughts too raw to approach without the shield of a metaphor,

as if comparing pain to the tide or the birth and death of stars will somehow soothe the sting.

the words died before they could leave my lips
but their corpses dance on my tongue

sometimes i look at the crude mass of jumbled words that spill from my fingers and i weep because i can't write good poetry.

sometimes i read, read, and reread until my eyes bleed and i finally concede that i cant write good poetry.

sometimes i want to scream and shriek since i sacrifice so much simply to sow words on paper like seeds in a field, yet i can't write,

good

poetry.

sometimes i give up.


but i've always been told that the best authors hide the most suffering, and I look back at my poetry and smile.

because if i can't write good poetry

at least it means i'm doing alright.

the sky blushed black,
freckled stars dotting her inky cheeks.

You can tell me you don’t deserve me.
That I’m worth so much more
Than an unfulfilled promise of an indefinite tomorrow.

I could live out one thousand tomorrows with you by my side.

You can insist that you’re not worth it,
But the twin moons in your eyes disagree.
I know how you look at me.
I can see a reflection in myself.

If I could paint,
that brush would sweep across the page
Breathing life into canvas
The crinkle of your eyes
The curve of your lips.

But you better believe that painting
Wouldn’t last any longer
than how long it would take me to forget your face.

You can say that I deserve better,
but I guess I’ll wait forever
Or at least as long as it takes you to come to your senses.

My writing once flowed like fresh tears chasing each other down blotchy cheeks, unspeakable sorrow etched in the shadows of smile lines.

Words once arose at my every beckon, like a puppy to its owner.

Once, I could sit down and dream, my adolescent imagination trickling into paper and ink.

Once, these hands breathed life into a keyboard, stories and scenes dripping from my very skin.

Now my visions cling like clammy palms wiped on satin dresses, drops of sweat sticking stubbornly to flesh as ideas do to my fingertips.

What I would give to wield that power once more.

depression is often compared to falling down an endless hole.
but
it’s actually more like a hot air balloon,
launched by those who tell you to change.
change your looks, your personality
be yourself, they say
not like that, they say
you let them launch your balloon
believing they’re trying to help you fit in
and you watch them grow smaller
as you slowly rise into the atmosphere
until the oxygen grows as thin
as the strings holding together your sanity
and you panic and scratch at the balloon
trying to poke a hole, thinking only about descent,
and your fingertips begin to bleed
and your wrists are cut on the harsh nylon ropes
and you collect scars because you can’t collect your thoughts
and all you want to do is fall
so you jump
and as you’re falling, you feel good.
you feel free.
but as you plummet towards earth and you can see the ground you begin to regret and spread your arms, desperately flapping but it’s too
late
and you hit the floor with a sickening,
bone shattering
crunch
then you float back up to the sky that ended you
and you see
your family
friends
teachers, everybody who’s ever loved you and maybe even hated you feel the ripples of force as you hit the ground
and they scream and rush to your side
trying to help
trying to do what they tell themselves they would have done
if only they had known, if only you had told them
but you felt silly and invalidated and you didn’t want anybody to see
and you didn’t think they would have saved you
so you kept it in and stayed in your balloon until it was too much
the oxygen was running out
with your will to live
but those who are alive cry
tears falling as quickly as you did from the sky
hitting the ground with splashes nowhere near as loud as the crash
that cut your life short
running their fingers over the scars that you hid
the pain that you endured up there in the atmosphere, hidden among long sleeves and fluffy white clouds and fake smiles
and they wonder why they allowed
you to go up in the balloon in the first place
and they begin to blame
not each other, but themselves
and some launch balloons of their own
telling themselves that they’re just grieving,
just wanting to see what you did in your final moments
but their balloons spiral out of control and
they find themselves falling
just as you did