If a writer tells you it's not you it's him
don't argue and believe him
you see the thing about writers is that
just like the waves of the sea they're never stable they crash into themselves trying to keep what's left of their sanity you'll think that they have this perfect life because they write so perfectly but you're wrong because most writers don't believe in perfection they believe in the power of absolute madness and other writers don't even know what to believe in and when they fall they don't simply fall in love they lose control and fall recklessly like there's no tomorrow they can make you the happiest person alive they will revolve their existence around you they will feed on your love and breathe you in they'll want you and all of you to them only because they'll become somehow selfish when it comes to you and you should never forget that you're the source of their happiness and without you they will never be whole they'll write russian novels about you and fifty pages of describing the beauty of your soul they'll make you the most beautiful thing they'll make you heaven walking on earth with their words and poems they'll make you alive but if you ever hurt them you'll be done gone forever you won't exist anymore even if you screamed for your existence right in front of their eyes they'll scratch you from the poems and all the love letters and you will become a nothing but a hovering memory of a ghost and even if you beg and plead on your knees they will never be the same because when writers have broken hearts they end up with broken souls that will never stop writing about the pain and agony you caused so when a writer tells you it's not you it's him just pick up your stuff and leave.

I am empty.
The void inside
Fills to the brim,
Overflows with things
I have lost.
My rationality.

These words tell my story.
The one I cant tell.
The colors I see,
Auras.
The beings I see,
Shadows.

Not one person
Feels the same.
I am proof.
Fear, Sadness,
The longing
To be normal.

Leave me be,
Or I will go
Insane.
Constant distraction.
Falling apart.
Drifting away.

Slowly.
Gently.
Slipping
Into the darkness
That consumes my mind.
Fighting for one last breath.

How do I fight myself?

This liquor tastes like
a loaded gun
Each sip propelling bullets
through memories of someone,
I can't remember who
so I guess it's working  
as my brain tilts this room

This smoke feels like
the gentle embrace
of my mother,
before she divorced my father
Now she doesn't even bother
getting out of bed

I'm sick and tired
of pulling the trigger
on every ****** beer
trying to steer this
body clear so my mind
can keep on thinking itself
to death

laced with lovers lonely thoughts,
We prowl.

a handful of shadowed sinners
veiled by the illusions of sainthood,
We lie.

etiquette adapts to enchant.
laugh to lure, touch to trap,
We ******.

clothes clutter the carpet.
with the courtship climaxing,
We ****.

before the sun can show your shame,
We leave.