why must the world be a battle field?

why are the loving hands of black men and women considered weapons?

why are members of the lgbt community considered evil?

why are non religious people seen as a spawn of the devil?

why must we live in a world where life is a battlefield?

why must we fight to believe in our own dreams?

why must we fight for the rights gifted to us as humans beings?

everyday we put up a fight,

and frankly i’m tired of this battlefield.

my demons are screaming i think they might win
my heads under water and i cannot swim.
theres weights at my wrist, a buzz in my ears, my eyes are going hazy my limbs are going limp.

my actions are now dire for the sake of myself
"mom i need help"
i force out my mouth like a bullet from hell.
"honey youre okay. youre gonna be fine"
those words hit my heart like a bunch of knives"
"okay, thanks mom. i love you"
i say, whisking away the blank expression on my face.

but heres one thing i just couldnt say.

my demons are screaming i think they might win
my breathes are short like october wind.
they have become people, violent and strong.
putting weights on my shoulders so i must play along.

ive kicked them off once, but they keep coming back.
they have become real things and theres no turning back.
they hold my sparks in the palm of their hands,
i sometimes wonder if ill ever see it again.

my demons are screaming i think that they've won.
my spark has gone out,
and im totally numb.

J'ai envie d'être aussi belle que les autres autour de moi.

i wish i coped with my anxiety in other ways.

i miss your hands.
i miss the way your fingertips trace their love into my hips.
i miss the way your hands wander all over me.
i miss the way your fingers feel on my tongue.
i miss your hands.
i miss how you hold me close.
i miss the way your fingers run through my hair.
i miss your hands in more way than one, but i long for every way just the same

id put a gun in my mouth if it meant i could **** the things living in my head.
without me actually being dead.

the thing about having
an alcoholic parent
is an alcoholic parent
does not exist

simply
an alcoholic
who could not stay sober
long enough to rise their own kids

i colored inside the lines my whole life.
than came you, and now my colors are reckless about their lines

im tired.
im tired of watching cuts slowly heal over and bruise.
im tried of begging for help.. silently.
im so tired.
i cant even hold my head up anymore.
but you know, im flexible.
you can pull me and i wont break.
not yet anyway

when i look into your eyes i can tell im dulling down.
my edges are rounding,
my color is dimming,
im not as shiny.
im trying to be perfect,
but maybe im not perfect enough.

even with all these voices in my head,
im still lonely without you.

why am i so sorry for myself?
why am i filled with pity?
i guess i finally realized the trauma has eaten its way at me.
but now all i am is filled with sorry feelings and pain.
why cant i think, why is this empathy weighting at me.
i cant continue to be sorry for myself.
but all i am is pity.

what do i do if im the only person on my deathnote?

when i feel the earth caving in i write.
i write about the earthy smell,
the way the roots twist and tangle,
i write about the way the rain falls horizontally.
i write about the way mother nature weeps,
the way her beautifully broken tears fall in puddles all around.
i write about the sky, and the clouds. the stars even.
i write about nature cause its all i know.
and i know nature will never change its earthy glow.

i feel like im drowning.
in unsaid words, unwritten poetry, unvoiced thoughts.
i can feel myself sinking into the bottom of this pit.
with my hands in shackles and my ankles tied.
im sinking.
everything echos down here.
im almost gone.
every thing is so cold.
imgone.
dont
       forget
me

her heart was like blown glass, sensitive and nimble.
she was hard to let pass.
she sat in your dreams swinging her feet, you always thought she was so sweet.
the heart of this girl so beautiful and true, would sing soft melodies to me and you.
it bumped and it thumped to the rhythm within, matching with yours. you were at a win.
the girl made of blown glass was vigilant of her heart, but only with you.
she was afraid of the new and you were too, so you protected her greatly.
her glass heart too.
but the harder you held the more she began to crack.

crack
crack
crash.

you sat with your love in bleeding hands, wondering why the girl of glass loved you.
but you loved her too, with every piece of newly hardened glass that she left with you.