There’s a strong sense of intoxication in every conversation I waste on lost translations,
and every word you speak floats in to the air without consolation for all the love it lacks,
and the lackluster thieves that stole your love from me began to latch onto dreams and all I tried to do was to believe that nothing was so broken.
No one was cut open and bleeding out the wounds we’d caused,
and I was just a piece of mindless emotion and you were devotion.
A simple notion to keep holding a loose grip on reality
and to keep trying to keep something with all finality
that it was lost in the normality and brutality of it all.
And I wrestled with my god to help me forgive those, for they know not what they do.
But I’m sorry I did when I kept lying to and hurting you.
It’s not about what we saw but what we knew, and we knew the end was coming soon
and tried to run from it but tripped on our tongues
and resisted the temptation to pray for compensation.
An empty sense of motivation to find a definite destination
of which windows weren’t shattered and the faucet didn’t leak.
But with every word you speak I hear a distant gunshot and my God did I bleed.
But after procrastinating the act of purification and without a clear manifestation we referred to suffer the damage of the storm.
And the roof caved in during a torrential downpour.
So this is how a forever withers, and how a love slips through shaky fingers.
And I still don’t know any sense of realness or a piece of sanity,
but I found amity within the stitches of our tragedy.
I hope that’s enough for now, or I guess until another window breaks.
Whichever comes first.

She looks in the mirror
with the knife at her throat
she’s so upset right now
she wants to let it all go
she cries out in anger
she’s so disgusted with life
that’s why she’s made her choice
she’s going to **** herself tonight
she sits on the floor
puts the blade to her wrist
she cries out in fear
she has to do this
the emotional turmoil she holds is too much
so she’s releasing it all
with one painful touch
she makes the cut
she starts to bleed
she stares in shock
as the blade falls next to her knees
it feels so good
it doesn’t hurt at all
she feels so lightheaded
all she wants to do is fall
she must have hit a vein
there’s so much blood
she’s starting to feel lifeless
she can’t even talk
she lays there on the floor
just counting the seconds
“5 more minutes” she whispers
as she waits to go to heaven
An hour later she’s dead on the floor
this poor innocent girl
she isn’t suffering anymore
all that’s left is the journals
in which she used to write
they explain her thoughts and feelings
that led up to that night.

The beauty of music
is in the written notes that are to be heard
The beauty of a poem
is in the shaking voice that is about to read it out loud
The beauty of love
is in the two breaths that break the strained atmosphere
The beauty of everything
is in disturbing the undiversified silence that reigns all around

Silence is peaceful
or at least that is what people say
they say they NEED it
to calm them
to bring them comfort
But to me silence brings only
agony
and loneliness
and emptiness
and pain
And why would I need silence to give these to me
when I already have them from you?

She was a beautiful mess,
Yanking out her auburn hair in distress.
The agony had her heart aching,
Her frail structure shaking.

She was a beautiful mess,
Wishing she had never confessed.
Sure she was rough around the edges,
But she stayed faithful with her pledges.

She was a beautiful mess,
Telling herself she was worth less.
Her amber eyes were now puffy,
Her tomato red nose completely stuffy.

She was a beautiful mess,
But the truth was she had been confused nonetheless.
She knew she deserved better than him,
And determination surged into her with a whim.

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.