If only I had the courage
to dig my nails so deep into my skin
that I can feel the flaws of my bones.

If only I had the courage
to dig my nails so deep into my chest
that I can hold the rhythm of my heart.

If only I had the courage
to dig my nails so deep into my skin
that I won’t end up ripping my skin apart.

but once again I must reminisce
       on how sadness tugs me at the core harshly
       on how happiness only gets me partially
       on how my heartbeats are so unsteady
       on how I want my miracles to ******* happen already
I’m tired
                 of drowning everything with gin
I'm sick
                 of always letting this sadness win

when you
can’t express
it out into
words
so you
just end up
transforming
them into
tears

instead

I need fuel for my art, so I feed on a seizure
Exposing a vein is now a private pleasure

How deep do I have
        to reach
How deep do I have
        to cut
How deep do I have
        to realize
that you're not the one

I tried hard to stay sane and afloat
paused myself from making holes in my boat
I tried hard not to dive into the ocean
so I kept my knees in, embracing the water's devotion
I tried hard to sail on with them waves
persuading myself that I am worthy to be saved

I'm frustrated
      suffocated
from words
       choked
thoughts turned to
       smoke
nothing left
for me to
       *****

Worn out from the fight
                                                                    




                                                                     my bones
scared to write

I force open my veins,
nothing comes out, not even pain
no more bloodshed, no more cries
all is left
is a blank paper full
of sighs
I glide my pen across
only to have my sentences hit
a pause
Everything used to just
flow out
of
me
Now, I can't even
construct a sentence
at ease
Everything is dead and dull
everything
is
dead
and
dull
Crack open my skull,
nothing to see
emotions are null

t’s pretty painful to try to grasp what’s real
when the emptiness in your soul is all that you feel.

So.
This ballpen of mine offered me a deal,
he said:
In order for those shallow wounds of yours to heal,
the lines you create must have an appeal.

In short, your sentence need to rhyme,
for that ragged heart of yours to be fine.

I feel so weak,
incomplete.
Breathing
tightened,
insanity heightened.
Blood
so bleached,
oyxgen out of reach.
Bones
cracking,
demons cackling.

Skip that cigarette,
instead
kiss my lips of
scarlet.
Skip that tobacco burn,
instead
let my tongue be of your
concern.
Skip that lighter,
instead reach for
my zipper.
Skip wanting that smoke,
instead give my neck
a gentle choke.
Just skip smoking all together, please,
my lust needs to be put at ease.
Do please put smoking to it's death,
i'd rather you smoke
my every breath.
**** me in in every corner,
feel my thighs getting
warmer.
Instead of that cigarette **** in
your mouth,
there's another **** for you
waiting
down south.
I'd only allow you to smoke once more,
if you've successfully made me
feel like a
*****.
But in the meantime, I'll just watch you light up,
as I sip from my cup,
watching you tell stories in this pub,
wondering when
I'll feel ever feel you
feel me up.