Crushed flowers are more beautiful
Than those that are not
They tell a story
Much like the scars we carry
Be it on our skin or in our minds
Our tales are what define us
And not our appearances
That wither just as the flowers
That are in bloom and shining so brightly
Give them a few more days
And they'll be no more
Than a fleeting memory

All humans are broken inside
They are all just shattered glass
Held together
By some ****** up duct tape
The more they live
And move on in life
The more troublesome shards
Fall from them  
They rot slowly
Until they are dead
They are all dead men
Each with a due date
Carved on their hearts
That is when their debts are due
And they have nothing
But their soul
To pay the price of living
Humans think they're so smart
But really, they're just as brain dead
As the next species
If not stupider
They have their cliques and societies
Those cute little clubs
Where they harass anyone
Who is considered other or lesser
While the animals roam free
Living short but happy lives
Without a care in the world
Except for the destruction
That the humans cause
In the natural order
How can they be considered superior just because they can have thought?
Thought only leads to depression
Thought only leads to jealousy
Thought only leads to killing
I am ashamed to say that I am a
Human.

My heart cries tears of blood
While a smile is plastered on my face
When I laugh, an earthquake erupts in my flesh
My skin aches to be ripped off
To show the world my misery and suffering
Yet the lies of my life stitches my costume to my soul
Unbearable pain flashes like thunder from a storm
I want to cringe, to cry, to shout but my act must go on
My only comfort that makes me alive and living
Is knowing that all masquerade will only last
Until this exhausted disgusting body rots and dies

I have always loved to write
It is a passion and a burden
These flames that reside within me
Burn me raw with envy
The talent I see in others
Rips me apart with yearning
For more
I crave to be beautiful
In these sentences I string
But these words do not feel real
They are but letters on a page
Easily destroyed and forgotten
Yet the works of others are timeless
They exist in another dimension
One that does not age
For they are the gods of poetry
And I am only a mortal
That dreams to be in the heavens