My heart falls out of my chest with a splatter
SPLURT gush mush
Crushed berry blood
Now pooling at your feet.

Now I have sicked up my heart
It is nothing to do with me
And you must clean it up.

Transplant what has burst into your own chest,
Cavity spattered, a gory work of art.
This is yours, this ******, awful mess.

some people think about their poetry
I know many do,
to make sure the  the 3rd and 4th rhyme
to make sure all there lines sing in time
But I have no time for that
Im thousands of years old but bearly 17
so ill blurt
and ill slur
and ill cringe
and ill howl
and ill snip
and ill snap
and splurt
and curse,

I'll walk my fingers to the key board and take of their leashes,
let them run wild in the dog park of my sanity
my ramblings,
they don't need any s
                                      t
                       ­              r
                                   u
                                  c
                           ­          t
                                       u
                                          r
                   ­                          e, nor do my sentences need to make sense
why would I conform To YOUR insanity
when I have my own band brewing like a bathtub bomb
Nothing I say needs to work as hard as my hands do
nothing I need to do should feel as heavy as the souls i carry in my
broken-strapped-bad-backed-back-pack
my alliteration literally doesn't need to alliterate its meaning
and I'm so Tired of Ideas being steam pressed into my head by the maid
that runs this mad house
you'll need to use your hands to eat this poem , I've turned the cutlery
into toy soldiers and their currently occupied in overseas service
so dig into my mind
ill open the front door for you just please remember before you
scoop out my brain
w
  a
   s
    h

       y
         o
           u
             r

                 h
                   a
                     n
                       d
                           s
    
*LG

I laid down,
And puked off the side of my bed,
I felt no better,
So I sat in my hands and cried,
and felt my **** growing on my thigh.
Great, I thought,
Lonely and not bought.
I stood up and fell,
I broke and I melt,
Indeed I ****** and I splurt,
But still my heart did not ****.
I guess the pieces were too tiny,
too embeded in the tears,
The burns sank throughout,
Even into my lonely ****.
The puke that laid upon my floor awoke,
Amassed and made into a form,
What was it, Who are you I said,
It gurgled blood and spoke to my mind,
I am your illness, your future, your past, your present.
Submit as you have and you shall be destroyed,
Struggle more as you would and I shall only laugh.
I saw its face, it became clear.
The beast with seven seven's and one six.
Almost perfect in its imperfections,
The face of my faults a trinity of disgusting.
The life of my mother dead on the floor,
That one cheating *****,
And the girl who I adored and left for nor,
I suppose...
Yes I suppose as I laid down,
Choking now, choking more,
This was all written.
Long, long ago,
In a book I'll never know.

chances are meant to being let go by us for those we care the most. in my past, too many mistakes have been done that became a consequence of who i am now - a mistake. i often make the wrong choices and the splurt out the most stupid words. i am like a flower in a glass jar, it wilts as days go by - even with the presence of water and sunlight. but trapping me inside it won't help me or anyone else around. and the falling petals are my chances, which falls one - by - one. i was freed once, but not anymore. i am trapped in this cage of someone else which ends up being a cage of mine. i choose to stay in here, no interaction with the outside world. now, i am too tired to fight for me

i am always not good enough.

and there is no one to be blamed except for myself. i took the wrong step and these are the consequences that i have to bear. and i have to change me, be a different me. not me. but someone else, satisfying enough for other people. i hope that'll work

A scent wafts in today
and I start making my own goals
in the wrong direction,
fingers clogged with dirt
nails raw
clawing with that uttermost splurt
that sends my head spinning
with no reflection.

Or maybe it's because it's May
and in-between my ***-holes
the wind is a distraction
minds filled with hurt
heart sore
feeling with that need to blurt
that sends my soul winning
with no detection.