there's music running up the walls
and glass beneath my feet
I write bad poems into the darkness
and hope my words may meet,
someone who hears me loud and clear
whom upon meeting I shall kneel,
to discover that there's been a wound
from which I cannot heal.
this painful madness creates a cage
the swallow settles into rest
begging with a heavy beak
for a bullet in her breast.
I was once a baby, awaiting death
so they put me in a box
and little did they know about
the ticking of the clocks.
the passing time of being stuck
silent begging to escape
get these tubes and needles out
so that I may be *****.
so I may be drugged and hurt and starved
of any love or joy
so I may drink the gift of life
that we all so enjoy.
from her cage, the swallow has now flown
free to soar at last
catch the wind inside her wings
but still prisoner to her past.
and I was put inside that box
with artificial life
the will from a father, let me live
and a mother with a knife.
she used to cut me slow and deep
and never let me rest
from all the other pain I've felt
and this sorrow in my chest.
this laughter echoes from my lips
but my eyes are red from crying
and no one knows that I smile
because I know I'm dying.
I'm dying from a lack of space
and air to ******* breathe
I'm dying from my own devices
and other's sunken teeth.
I'm dying from my mother's rage
my father's hopeful grin
and now I may take comfort
in all my countless sins.
3 years ago I swallowed pills
enough to try to die and then
I settled on the bathroom floor
and waited for my end.
but life betrayed me, as it does
my body fought for air
as I choked on my own *****
and shook until I met the stare,
of a brother who was pale as snow
and my mother with her knife
she said, this is what you get you see
as he began to cry.
I pulled through as the doctor said
you haven't got a clue
how lucky you are to be alive
from all that you've been through.
I remember the kind nurse
who held me as I cried
I remember my mother
invisible then, still wielding her knife.
It seems that I simply won't die
until I'm truly meant to,
and with that, I'm sentenced to my life
and I must see it through.
there's music running up the walls,
and glass beneath my feet,
and I write whatever I want
so that my words may meet,
someone who's kind and listens well
despite all of my flaws
and when I meet them I shall rise,
and take life by its jaws.