the tears fell
onto her feathers
in iridescent moonlight
after she broke her own
wing attempting
to fly away from
home.

Separation as Droplets fall
Ripples come to take my all
Love is Blind
Roses Fall
I need this Love and I need it all

Leave me,
Like a
     ruined book
          collecting dust.
   Abandon me,
Like a steel mill
       consumed
  by rust.

Tell me about
    Tomorrow,
As if it were
       Today.
And I'll try to find
    Acceptance,
In the things
  I cannot change.

I guess you could call it poetic how by the age of 12 I had no recollection of what happiness tasted like on my tongue. Some would say it was tragically beautiful.
But it was not poetic, nor was it beautiful,  but it was tragic. It was so very, very sad, and that sadness is only doubled now that people see sorrow as glorious.  It is not glorious. It is not strength. It is a lump of iron in your chest and stomach and it eats you from the inside, out and you have no right to think that blood stained wrists are anything other than tragic. So very,  very tragic.

I don't remember when the **** my poetry became about pleasing people or getting votes or views.
I don't remember when my writings were only created to be approved by a friend.
I don't know when things became about success or money.
I don't know why it turned into pleasing a lover.
But as soon as it did become about those things, I lost my spark, and suddenly writing was a chore.
I'm done with burning in my small spotlight with nothing flowing on paper,
I just want to be free.
It's time I get back to writing the way I used to.
For my emotion. For my passions. For myself.