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  Dec 2018 A
Pyrrha
We always talks about putting our broken pieces back together
Or we speak of mending another with tape and glue
Like stitches that won't undo
But putting the pieces back together wont make them new
Why don't we ever think about picking up each others broken parts
And placing them where ours once were
Instead of fixing a puzzle with missing pieces
Why don't we become art
And fill each other with beautiful parts?

All that you find broken about yourself
All that I find rotten within my hollow shell
Are colorful pieces to complete a work of art
If you take some of me and make it beautiful
Then perhaps one day I too could see the beauty I betray
I'll do the same for you as I collect these magnificent additions
To the masterpiece that I make of myself
One day we will become Mona Lisa and The Starry Night
Not only will we be the art we will become the artists
As grand as DaVinci, as unique as Van Gogh
We will fill this world with our broken art
And make others learn that there is beauty in every splintered part
  Dec 2018 A
Ink Syndicate Poetry
Nobody chooses a bottle willingly. A pill or a loaded gun, in the end it's all the same.

We're waiting, still, hiding. In our holiest of places:

The kitchen and the office. A quiet sideways-slide into the last available stall in a casino washroom. The seat is still warm.

Teachers don't tell kids that drugs are bad. They told us that we were the evil ones for deep-******* a bottle of ***** every Friday.

They didn't know what we had to go home to.

Cancer sounded better than living past 20, and that's the thing that they'll never comprehend:

There's always a reason underneath overdose.

The only time a drug is bad is when you can't afford it, and you're sitting alone in a fetal position crying in need for a chemical bliss that you've caressed over and over; a blanket covering memories. Feelings. Emotions.

The only time a drug is bad is when you're too **** poor to grab anything better than a box of Benadryl and a dimebag of shake.

The only time a drug is bad is when you're anything but rich an' white and pretty, because then you're not addicted, you're having fun with the price of 1,000 a week at an all-inclusive rehab resort.

Drugs don't discriminate, but people sure as Hell do.

There's always a reason underneath overdose.

There's always a reason underneath.

There's always a reason.
  Dec 2018 A
zoie marie
i told my therapist about you,
while your lips were still slathered alllll over my body.
i showed her the places we had been,
and all the things we had seen.
i told her what lies underneath that pretty
                                              pretty
skin of yours,
and i told her how i knew.
i spelt out your name as she scribbled it on her cute little clipboard,
i told her about the   first     night
and the      second
and the   fourth
and that time in the closet.
i told her everything,
i really just wanted to   get
                                                  you
                                      out  
of my brain,
it didn't matter if saying these things put me in  sososo  much pain.
because you've  moved   on  so why can't i?
i told my therapist about you,
but i still can't tell you
                                           goodbye.  
i know i'm  s t u p i d,
for holding on this l
                               o
                                n
                             ­    g,
i know it's useless,
for wishing you weren't                              gone.
but my words carry on like a heartbeat
s     l      o      w
steady
                          fast
u   s   e   d
  n    t   a   y
i   keep   keep   keep  breaking and breaking and breaking and
i told my therapist about you.
i think part of the reason why we hold onto something so tight is because we fear something that great will never ever happen twice

****
i was in so much pain when i wrote this, my lover had just left with two years of my life and i felt so so so alone. i chewed through therapists constantly, they left me behind because i was too broken to fix. i hated them all. but there was this one, this one singular human being that listened to me. she didn't flinch, she didn't look at me like i was a broken puppy left for death. she just listened. i was all over the place, but i managed to lay out my entire mind for her to dissect. and she did. she helped me so so much, and i could never repay her enough for how she has helped me. when i got home, i wrote the basics of this. it was like 12:30 when i wrote it and i couldn't sleep the next night so i decided to make this look exactly how i felt when i wrote it the night before. how my lover made me feel for so long. so i did. i was crying mountains, i was hyperventilating, i threw my phone through the wall. i put all my anger, blood, tears in each letter, each space. i put it all in there and then posted it a couple weeks later. i didn't show anyone. i just put it out there, hoping my lover would see it. but it didn't even matter cause when i woke up, the whole world saw it instead. thank you. i love you all.
  Dec 2018 A
Jessie Taylor H
Just a piece of metal,
That's stained with red and white.
Leading me to sweet pain,
And such a lovely high.

Flawless drops of red escaping,
While this addictive white dust is introduced to my brain.
My mind feels so beautiful,
And my whole body trembles.
Thinking of the taste of your neck,
While shivers run down my spine.

The bitter taste in my throat,
Masking the emotions I suppress.
Feelings of you keep swelling up,
So I do another line to tame them.
Your charming smile vanishing,
Replaced with lustful eyes.
Calming down my heart,
And filling up my mind.
2/8/2017
  Dec 2018 A
Ephemeral Em
Hunter S Thompson held hands with death
The bony fingers wrapped over his own
Resting on the trigger of a gun pressed to his head
Bang: blood went everywhere
Found by his son with dead eyes and cold to the touch

Sylvia Plath laid her head on deaths lap
Inside of an oven with the gas turned on
She took deep breaths and starved for oxygen
Carbon monoxide filled her lungs
Found by a nurse with blue lips and a still chest

David Foster Wallace reached up to kiss the lips of death
A rope worn as a necklace
He let his body hang as his face turned blue
Found on his patio with a broken neck and a broken heart

I too am a writer and they are scared for me to reach for death
I long for their embrace as a razor across my wrists
Writers are always torn apart trying to be too many people at once
So let them find me without a spark of life or an ounce of blood left inside
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