When cold days leave you anchored to your bed what is it to           Live

My Grandmothers creased and gregarious eyes radiate                      Life

Just as the shoots of grass reach to kiss the sky oh so               Simplistically

My soul was scorched.
Excavated of the soft and tender leaving the bitter and dismal.
Days after this grand liquidation sale with my gutted contents crumpled up in the remains of used tissues my ashen lips were clamoring for you, the boy who set the fire.
I had skinned myself of your touch, each day nurturing the tenderness back into my cheeks. Seeded under my renewing flesh was the devil of animosity begging me to hold on to a fragment of you.
My healing process is fueled by the grueling fire of disdain.
Even with your presence gone I seek you to be the platform of my existence
The ember of softness and genuine essence weeps inside of me, if only I spent those days searching my hollowed body for the fire simply waiting to ignite inside myself.
I realize now how repulsing and selfish I am, you pour so much into someone so they are pooling at the brim, but if that burning ember inside of them isn't properly tended and respected, their kettle will never brew.
I am sorry I couldn't have coaxed your ember
I am so sorry it had to be you

Your crescent eyes look at me moist like a marshy pond.
All the pain and beauty those eyes have ingested glossy and confused.
"I'm a **** up" you say as you drop the news.
You search so desperately to find a title to straighten your spine and give your story a purpose your flesh cannot find.
You are tremendous, a testament of life. Your eyes are a chasm of brooding emotion, utterly human.
I know how ravenously you claw and peck at the festering flesh of others searching for the nectar the cloying sweetness you miss within yourself.
But you are the golden honey ***.
You mistake the swarming bees for tasteless wasps.
You are horribly misconstrued.
The boys that bask themselves in synthetic sugar are simply hiding their innards of soot and poo.
I forgive you, but this doesn't matter.
You must find the golden honey gleaming behind the spackle of false propaganda you call your marrow.  
You are complete.
There is nothing dead inside you, things simply need tended to.
You are human, please never forget.
**** up is simply the veil you wear to hide this fact.