if i give you a poem

know that i split open my scalp
and tore apart the pink matter
know that i crept far back and dug through the crevices of my brain
know that i stumbled into the dark, groped for words that stuttered when they tiptoed outside
tread lightly on them
for they are just learning to walk

know that retreating is addictive
and i am a creature of habit
know that camouflage is not always my forte
and i am better at hiding
know that i am ashamed when you look at me
and see
that my sky is always pink, my grass always lavender, my sea always crimson

know that i am ugly
and that i have tore off my face and rebuilt it so many times
i hardly recognize myself
know that my insides are clogged
know that my lungs are stuffed with shrapnel and my heart is bursting with debris
and that nothing runs through my veins

know that this is all i have left
this thing,
falling out of my chest, spilling over my lap, collapsing at your feet

know that it is yours now

do what you will.

Fragile porcelain case
Holding 5000 feelings
All screaming at the same
Volume
Head on the ceiling
Heart sometimes at your feet
Pick up again
Pick up again
And try hard
Don’t you always seem
To be at that same
Difficulty?
You think as you always do
“Maybe it’s me”
Brain consistent
And people?

Well... they’re people..

How do you compose yourself
In the midst of
Constant cracking?
Who’s your emotional backing?
Do they stick around
Or do the chorus
Of
5000
Scare them away?
Oh dear
Here
Are
Tears again today
Porcelain sheen
It fades
Blemishes show and
You are revealed
You are you
And the worst part of you
Is the part you hold
In a heart
That is
Picked up again
Picked up again
Dust on the ground
Pick it off
Pick it off

Lest it get on your soul
Seemingly less bold
Or maybe just seemingly less

Porcelain vase
Meat suitcase
Confines of a heart
Picked up again
Picked up again
As feelings trickle out
Spilling 5000 songs at once
Recycled
Never lost
And always
Seemingly
...losing

Dear, there are tears again
Where are your friends?
Are they chipped too?

As I am...
...here for you

these feelings bleeding
  ******* of Spirit

these emotions swimming
  indecision is winning

help me --
  i've got no mission

help me --
  i'm full of rivets

i'm all broke within
  my insides

these thoughts crawling
  further away from god

you cannot help my situation
you cannot lift the skies
you cannot breach the walls
    of where my Soul has
    gone to die

help me --
   i'm waking up drowning
help me --
   i'm too complicated

And these feelings bleeding
  a ******* of my Spirit

:: 09-28-2018 ::

I guess,

silence is the loudest scream
you'll ever hear.

silence is the greatest chaos
you'll ever see.

silence is the most painful feeling
you'll ever bear.

And,

Silence is the most frightening
voidness you'll ever be trapped into.

Dark silence rippled through the air
My lungs heaved, straining to drain in as much oxygen as I could consume
The beast in my innards yearning for freedom
Tearing and and ripping my insides
I can feel him
He feels entitled to be free
I cannot let him out
Now I'm lost

Today was the day
I decided to clear out--
no real reason to keep
the junk that has began to rot.

Smelly like moss on a crumbly tree,
or the fashionable nonsmokers room
smelling like there's been quite a few
rebels striking back at a budget motel--
probably because they didn't have enough
television channels, to pacify these poor souls.

The inanimate fixtures are posed for display--
once complex industry
were personified to a fleeting idea of 'purpose',
instead smothers its surroundings
with the validity of indifference;
the forgotten hallows that
truly signify my closing hours.

Inside me now
are the cooing sounds
and the beating wings of fragile pigeons
that seek shelter from a world
trying to forget them;
beginning to call them pest
even though they are snow,
so they must hide within me
and survive with my blood orchids
that begin to bloom--
spilling out of me.

i think i’m starting to hate writing.
i think i’m starting to regret the nights i stayed up
trying to find the right word
for the right sentence.
i think i’m starting to grieve over the trees i killed
so i could spit out poems
and then throw them away.
what good has it done besides leave me
with endless lines of dissatisfaction
and baggy eyes?
what good has it done besides isolate me
and force me to spend my waking hours
in solitary confinement
within my own sphere of words?
and all it's given back to me is
a crowd of imaginary friends
i only know how to speak to
through ink.
i think i’m starting to loathe these so-called “friends.”
they were only inky caricatures i wished into existence.
when i poured my heart out, sobbed into their pages,
because writing is “therapy,”
all they did was stare back
and let me inhale more ink
and exhale more words.
but they didn't warn me when i inhaled too much
and let the ink overflow my lungs,
clog up my throat,
bleed everything over in black.
they didn't warn me when the ink started
killing me inside out.
i think i’m starting to hate writing
for
i have become a corpse,
slumped over my desk
—decaying,
as unfinished sentences leak out of my mouth
and bleed past my ears,
cascade like tears
down my cheeks
but i,
i am only trying to read the missing words.