I used to think the best thing was floating,
Letting your head fall back as you're drifting,
Waving hand-shapes through the tranquil sea.

But then I noticed that without swimming,
Without the times when you find the strength to kick your legs,
And life's a long distance struggle against an unyielding tide,
You would never ever know,
The contentment of floating.

And I noticed that without storms,
Without the times when the waves roar endlessly,
And life's a crashing ocean in the sandy bay of your mind,
You would never ever know,
The contentment of floating.

Then I noticed that without diving,
Without the times when you explore the ocean floor,
And life's an appreciation of the new and the scary,
You would never ever know,
The contentment of floating.

I used to think the best thing was floating,
But I noticed that the journey there,
Is just as good.

I read online about a coping technique:
When you're stressed, bite gently on your knuckles.

My knuckles are now so bruised and swollen it hurts to move my hand.

This is not a poem,
But an emotional outpouring
Delicate as the ribcage of a wren,
Shattering as the bullet through glass,
The deafening silence of acceptance of rejectance,
I grow weary of being hurt,
You were not worth the scars.

There is a way to be whole again.
It starts with realising that you aren't the characters from your books,
Nor the popular personas you fabricate at night,
It starts with accepting that there's no one else you can be,
You are both the first and last you,
So automatically,
You are the best you there will ever be.
So for every cut and broken piece,
There is a way to be whole again.

Kiss,
Your mouth like hot butter,
I bite down on the rich fullness of your lip,
Pull,
Hear the moan catch in your throat,
Clings to the walls of your oesophagus,
Because it gives you away,
Desire,
Oh mystery man,
Who finds his feelings so far from the sleeve,
So vulnerable with your shirt off,
For a sharp tongue,
Its a soft body,
I want to curl up,
In the hollow beneath your ribcage.

Mutilated girl,
And they said they'd let him go,
No freedom for her.

*My first haiku, so not sure how I feel about it

Leaning by the lampost
Eyes half closed
That sleepy, **** look,
Just to be close to you
In that dazed-fog-aura
I think you're lonely
You hug the lampost
You could be hugging me
Look at me with your eyes half closed
That sleepy, **** look
My laugh is stupid
Too loud and breaks that dazed-fog-aura
There are seconds when we could kiss
That pause, that pause
Where I catch all your smoke,
And cherish your smile.