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
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?
If you cut me open what do you think you would find? Two gasping lungs? A beating heart? What do you expect to find inside me? Hope? Faith? Love? I'm so very sorry to disappoint I've beaten you at your own game Truth is I opened myself up a long time ago Just to see what flesh looked like below skin And as it would seem I'm empty inside
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.