the beauty that comes
from that little black pen
of yours
is more than what will ever
come from the stars
and the moon,
or the sun
and a clear blue sky;
your mind is working
so fast
and your pen still manages
to keep up with your train of thoughts;
your words scribbled on paper
are better than any
misty lake
on a cold Sunday morning
or a silent forest
on a dark Tuesday night;
your pen carries every single
emotion
from your brain
to the paper it is dancing over;
your beauty is
written through
that little black pen
and you should never
stop writing,
even when you feel empty,
you can find something
to write about;
never
stop

when asked the question
"why?"
I reply
by shrugging my shoulders
why?
I don't know,
maybe I am depressed
or maybe I am just
sad,
maybe I need another cigarette,
maybe I need to pour myself
another drink
or maybe I need a half-naked
pretty young girl to **** whatever
has clawed it's way into my skin
out and into the sweaty,
dark room I sit in,
so it can evaporate,
rid itself from my being;
no matter how much
I smoke,
drink,
****,
the loneliness still carves it's
entire existence into my bones
like lover's names in trees,
it leaves blood stains
and leaves me longing
for so much
more

I know I should stop,
I have told myself
a thousand
*******
times
but my mind won't listen
when it is restless and
needs comforting,
I am lighting
cigarette
after cigarette,
drinking *****,
whiskey, gin,
anything hard
to really put an end
to the voices in my head;
but they keep coming back
they're not backing down,
I'm being eaten
from the inside out

I could stay drunk for days,
I love the way I can't feel
my legs
or my head
and I can't see
what's in front of me;
I love how I can punch anything
and everything
and not feel it,
and I absolutely love
stumbling home
with ****** knuckles
and laughing at my own
stupidity;
I see inside of myself
when I'm drinking,
I see it all;
all the anger
and the pain,
we don't talk,
just look,
and that is enough,
to know that when I
inform people that there
is so much more to me
than what they see,
and they tell me I'm being
silly,
I know,
I know,
that you exist

WHEN MY BONES BREAK
FROM THIS LIFE I'VE BEEN LIVING,
WILL YOU BE THERE
TO PICK UP THE FRAGMENTS
OF MY ONCE-LOVING STABILITY?

I shake and I tremble
just trying to get my thoughts
in an order that works;
trying to get them
to assemble
in a way that makes
them easier
to understand;
left, right, centre,
nothing is fixed;

so,
the only thing left
is to
leave the thoughts,
make them go away
for a while;
drink,
****,
smoke,
thinking is painful,
numb the ******* pain
for a while

Why are we even here?
What are we meant to do?
I have no clue.
How bout you?
Could we visit the stars?
Maybe just Mars.
Still we just ride in cars,
Even though we’re all just behind bars.

you will fall in love with "him" and he will die

it will not be funny

you will dream about "him" and you will cry

it will not be funny

(the next day)

you will see "him" in the man you hate the most and you will fall in love the second time around

it will not be funny

but you will just laugh it off because he will love you too

it will not be the funniest love story
but it will be loved by many

it will not be your first love
but it will be true

it will be out of love-hate
but it will be infinite

****
it will be
trust me

my
soul is
thirsty for the
dawn of your heartbeats

She opens up Word
To finish her long-ago due homework
Yet she just found herself staring
At her little computer
Sighing, she types in
"asfhdbcndjhdr"
Because that was all
That could come out of her
So she goes and gets
A piece of paper
Thinking, hoping
This might be easier

But after a few minutes
Of her just playing with her pen in her fingers
She stops and groans
Wasn't she supposed to be a writer?
Frustrated, she grabs her pens
And throws them
"****, I can't even finish
A ******* po