If I could tattoo my poetry to my skin, I would
I would show them my word-riddled wrists
Where the scars used to be
And the prosaic verses sprawled on my neck
Where I planned to loop the rope

If my poems were good, I would tattoo them on my skin
Sadly, all I have are a sophomoric amalgamates of odd words
That make dead poets turn in their graves

I saw something (a gift) that my friend would like. I picked it up. I decided that the next time I see her, I'm going to give it to her. I started walking to the place where I knew she was going to be. A few steps to it, I feel my heart pounding a little. With each step, the pounding increased. When I reached the door, the pounding was making my hand shake. Exhaled. It didn't help my nervousness. I retrained my courage. I went in. She wasn't facing me then she turned around and saw me. We smiled. My heart relaxed. Approached her. Gave her the gift. I saw a pretty smile on her pretty face. That was a long walk, but it was so worth it.

I self destruct
It's what I do best
I wreck things I love
I leave behind mess

I'm on a war path of my own
And I burn bridges better than most
Set in my ways like stone
I keep wandering lonely roads

Brought up in a tired old town
I've never been one for sticking around
I've got madness on my mind
I keep running to leave it behind

This cold heart keeps warm
Wrapped up in trouble is all I know
I wear it like an armour
Sticks and stones won't break these bones

Wise crack
Wild as a fire
I'll say the wrong thing
Build you up like a tower

Then you'll crash to the ground
When I leave this old town
Don't be surprised when I say
I never wanted to stay

Throughout her adult life
all of the land shaded.
Feverless islands where the
aged couple sleep.
Never once have I hosted a party. Not once have I
told you, I have
been hurt.

maybe love is to watch a thousand winters pass, and still stand by his side because you know he's made of spring

People that don't self harm
Don't seem to understand it.
But I don't expect them to.

First, it hurts, A LOT.
It hurts when you first do it
And it hurts the next day.
It hurts when your long sleeves rub against it
And it hurts when you look at what you did.

Next, cuts bleed, A LOT.
At first they don't bleed,
You start cutting deeper,
Then they bleed, a lot.
It doesn't stop bleeding.

Please don't tell me to just stop.
I can't just stop.
It's so addicting.
Even though I want to stop,
I can't.

It starts out as you control it,
But then it ends up controlling you.
You want to wear short sleeves?
Think again, you can't.
You want to go swimming with friends?
Oh yeah, they'll probably think you're crazy.

Every time you do it one more time,
It becomes more and more addicting.
Just one more you think, but no.
This is the last time, but it's not.
You can't just stop.

I don't mean to hurt the people around me.
In that moment, all I can think about is
Hurting myself.
I'm sorry for hurting everyone else
While I'm hurting myself.

maybe what people
usually say is true
3am thoughts
is a curse that turns
your day soul into blue.