STOP REBLOGGING MY POEMS
I WROTE THESE TWO YEARS AGO
WHEN I WAS THIRTEEN
WHY WERE THEY SO EDGY

It's Thursday. You've just told me how you really feel. How the sky we painted blue has turned to grey, How the stars I captured for you began to fade.
One word, Ten letters.
Shattered.
It's Friday. I Haven't talked to anyone in hours. I can't get out of bed or bring myself to leave the house.
One word, Five letters.
Tired.
It's Saturday. I'm pushing away the thought of you, and I'm wiping away the words you stained my skin with. I'm out with friends, but I'm all alone.
One word, nine letters.
Isolation.
It's Sunday, And your voice is forever bouncing around my skull as I wipe away the words I have left to give to you.
One word, seven letters.
Falling.
It's Monday. A day I dread regardless of the event or time, but a day I can't get through with the weight of the world and the weight of your woes on my shoulders.
One word, Four letters.
Lost.
It's Tuesday. I haven't talked to you since you crushed my heart under your foot, laughing the whole way. I don't care if you've destroyed me, because I would give anything to hear your laugh.
One word, Seven Letters.
Missing.
It's Wednesday. No one is sure how okay I am. I stopped talking two days ago. I only watch as everyone carries on without my conversation, and only watch as everyone, including you, fails to notice.
One word, Seven more letters.
Silence.
It's Thursday again, and I'm trying to forget the feel of harsh words and tongues like knives. I'm trying to forget the words you etched into my skin. I'm trying to remember how to sew a broken heart without falling off the string and I'm trying to forget the taste of your name mixed with tears and gin. It's not working.
One word, Nine letters.
Forgotten.

I'm in a 60mph funnel
everything going on around me
forces me to stand still
and pushes me into the center of a typhoon
that'll drown me until I grow gills

DO I, DO I, DO I
Have to listen to what
everyone says, at-least to
capture an idea. I've heard
of tedious reviewing, but
can it be raw. Can it dare
to be something other than
structured. Concise is one thing,
but is stress another. If I were
to free-flow like the rest
of the world, would it be bad?
You may say it's trash. But are children's books
the same to a certain degree. May it be long,
may it be short, may it be?
Why must there be an end, when your mind certainly
doesn't, or would you rather talk
of death.

You aren't the first to walk these roads.
These lonely, gravel trails  covered in broken glass and nails.
Every time a rickety car breaks down and fails
it leaves it's wreck along the side of highway,
just watching the traffic pass them by.
They are monuments to every effort we have made and given up on.
They are why you MUST try.

Whether you live in a town or a city,
there are going to be some pretty ****** moments in life.
It takes a lot of strife to get a small amount of satisfaction
but the chain reaction
of doubts and down 'n' outs
is drowned out by the radio static and
I don't mean to sound dramatic but
I understand.

I just want you to know
you're not going to go on your own this time.
Every moment spent crying is time that could better spent trying.
If I told you I don't have these moments,
well, I'd be lying.
Because I've felt the color drain from my face
as I try to remember the last place I left my courage
because it's not at arm's reach this time.
Sneers and eyerolls draw spirals around me
like I'm at ground zero of an M.C Escher painting.

I can rephrase suffering so many ways.
But at this pace, I still can't outrun my own thoughts.
I find my courage at last
but there is no sticking place to ***** it to,
so I just say "***** it."
I can't say I knew it would end this way,
but if all this poem comes down to
is a whiny teenager trying to be edgy
than I guess I...