It started with the writing desk,
    my friends:

                                                                               the Green Wolf

                                                                               the White Tiger

                                                                                        and

                                                                              the Black Horse.


I huddled in the claw tub;
   thinking of familiar faces

                                                                                    within
                                                                                       the
                                                                                 f u r r o w;

                                                                         how I adored them
                                                                         smiling back at me.


I spoke to my father in the mirage;
   my reflection stared back at me

                                                                          his lips mirrored
                                                                                 my own
                                                                                    with

                                                                               r i d d l e s.


I spoke to my mother in the mirage;
   my reflection stared back at me

                                                                        her lips mirrored
                                                                                my own
                                                                                   with

                                                                             a n s w e r s.


The water
r i s e s
from    the    spring;

                                                                                      b
                                                                                      u
                                                                                      r
                                                                                      n
                                                                                      i
                                                                                      n
                                                                                      g

                                                                      the withering shadow

                                                                               drowning
                                                                       in    the    claw    tub.


The water
d r a i n s
from    the    body

                                                                                          c
                                                                                          h
                                                                                          i
                                                                                          l
                                                                    &n

Geek, ***, loser
Find the rope to hang
Anxiety attack on deck
Don't nobody feel your pain
Weight of the world on your shoulders
Daddy isn't around
Family falling to pieces
Home run into the ground

Little brother cries after school
Its what the bullies have turned him into
Bright child full of love
Living in a world full of hate
Turned into a scared child now
Growing up ***** when you're his age
Everyday is a struggle trying to be optimistic
Knowing he has to go to a place where the kids are so sadistic

Tragic characters in an empty theater
God doesn't watch us
God doesn't care
The passion we were born with fades to dust
With every cigarette we inhale so eager for our death
On the last night on Earth I will stand by your side
We can plunge to our death
In love,
You and I.

perscripted after
mother found me
bleeding from
my wrist
more than a
week ago going
"strong" she has
my blades but it's hard
to take the harshest weapon
when it's your head
and it's sharpened in the night

i am not a poet.
poets are the sad ones awake at three a.m. mourning over the sad loss of their lover.
poets are the ones yearning to love, and to be loved the same.
poets are beautiful, dangerous and tragic. every word that they speak is a dagger in your side, the slow knife that cuts the deepest.
poets are the ones who realise the power of words, so they choose them carefully (they know they could be choosing their fate).
poets know that the absence of words is just as important as the presence.
poets are born, not crafted.
maybe i am a poet.