I wasn’t being rude to you but to him;
He who thought he could scale mountains and climb trees
And jump off all without actually having to fall
I wasn’t being cruel to those who mourn,
But that with which caused the sorrow, as tomorrow
He’ll be not but a fading memory that can’t stick
What’s his face? You’ll cling so desperately to pain
It will be sickening to watch and even worse to try to bear
Until the faint of heart stop beating themselves
Into shuddering piles of agony
We must all prepare for our own destruction
We must make the beds that we will lay in forever

Look. I can't change the way that things happened or how they will. I can't prevent you from crying or even hurting at all, and I know that's my own fault. I've stopped time for you but I can't change time in itself, I can't change what happened or how I reacted or all of the things that I'm ashamed of. I'm just. I'm tired of pretending I'm some saint who can fix everything that happened I don't want to pretend for you, you don't deserve that, I've pretended way too much..
If I can stop the world from changing as slowly and effectively as it does.. for you.. for just a second. I just want to show you what you look like to me now and in this moment; so beautiful; so strong and consistent; so deserving.
You'll never listen fully to everything I have to say and you'll never grasp the concept of the fact that you deserve things far better than me. To quote the analogy of a friend.. you're a 50¢ coin.. I'm a penny. I'm the grimiest, most rusted, two faced, over used penny you'll ever see, ever meet, ever know. You know me. And I'm so sorry for the hell that that brings you.
I'm a bitter bully who drags you out, out of her way, into every beautiful place you've ever known and I leave myself there, in a kiss, in a touch, in the whisper of your name until you blame yourself for why you hate them and can never and will never return.

I don't feel sick.
I don't feel the cold sweat spread across my skin as the infection travels
That sweat was already there
It appears every morning when I wake
Its dampening presence will either grow
Or stay consistent
It comes with fighting for the control over my mind
So be I laying with a fire of infection
Roaring a dangerous path across my
Star bound body and
Constellation of veins
The cold sweat will not be a giveaway
The aching muscles are there with the fight
They grow tense and release
All of my stress before re-clenching
And holding that infection
That's burning a hole through the fabric of my existence
In place
As it casts it upon every piece of my soul
I am dangerous to myself
I am my own demise as every clenched tooth
Begins to clench harder
The stress appearing in the bulging vein
That goes across my temple after
Working its way up my neck

I'm a poet, do I know it?
How could I show what I don't know?
How could I grow from what I can't show?

          Knowledge is painful, do I bleed?
          Ignorance is boring, must I plead?
          For something that every human will need?
          To say or share or sing my pain?
          I'm simply a poet with too much to say
          But ever as such, I have no more to gain

                    I am a poet, does that mean I'm in pain?
                    Singing and crying and lying with shame?
                    Must I pretend that life is always a cloud?
                    That is dark and its only purpose to shroud
                    And destroy all the happiness that I see every day
                    Would that make me a poet, in any way?

                              You are a poet, I can see in your eyes
                              As they scour the ground searching for disguise
                              As they prey on the souls of the giddy and free
                              You are a poet, you are like me
                              And I assume that means you're in pain
                              But looking at you, I see no such shame

                                        He was a poet, with blood on his tongue
                                        Choking, and curling his sin to a song
                                        Singing in tunes with abysmal pain
                                        He made me a poet, he made me feel shame
                                        But I don't need him when you made me feel free
                                        *There was never a poet as happy as me