I'm b r e a t h i n g for the first time
Alive, what a surprise
The trees sing to me, I bask in their glory
I'm a piece of the universe, the universe is in me

I feel her when I'm b r e a t h i n g

pretty
*******
sick
how
I
thought
of
you
when
I
thought
I
was
dying
but
you
never
thought
of
me
once
when
you
felt
alive

The next time you miss him,
or want to take him back,
look down at the scars on your arm,
and remember that he will always be a part of
who you are

What do you miss more?
Gaslighting so strong you shook yourself to sleep and let exhaustion run so deeply in your veins you're tired a whole year later?
Or the nights he kept you awake just to argue and bring to attention every flaw you've ever had and how you were so unlovable he'd be the only person to ever tolerate you?

Next time you miss him,
Look down at the scars on your arm
And remind yourself
you don't need to be tolerated
you are art

Dregs at the bottom of my coffee cup,
the burnt remains I could never finish up,
My poems always had to rhyme and I hated that,
I hated me.
Sediment at the bottom of a river,
it turns from crystal to mud,
still carrying the weight of a 100,000 tons,
but never looking pretty enough.
Sediment at the bottom of a river,
the farther out you are, the bluer it becomes
because you can't see the piles of dirt underneath
or the diamonds that lay beneath

I always wonder what the last song I hear will be,
what words will grace the fingertips of my grave
and will they make a difference in the way that I decay?
What print will they leave on my soul, strong enough to stay
when the oak I said I didn't want, but got, has rotted away?
I always wonder what my last song will be,
if the strings will harmonize with me,
and dance with the wind,
and steal the tears from my family,
because God knows they will have plenty,
when they hear the last song that I chose
before I said my time on earth was plenty,
I always wonder what my last song will be,
if I should make it sad, to make it easier to go,
or happy to make sure they know that's not why I did,
I always wondered if I would still be able to here it, after
God knows that song would be something I could live for, forever

They're called our golden years
because they're shiny, energy
pitter patters inside dollar store batteries
didn't quite fit the mold the remote control
gave them but they still managed to get by
They're called our golden years
because 1920s America were golden too,
corruption blanketed poverty,
depression plagued the youth
while beautiful violin numbers drowned out the screams
I always pictured the song that I **** myself to,
one from the jazz age,
so no one knows I was so rotten underneath
the gold I worked hard to shine
each and every day
I'm 20 now
I'm golden, now
Composing my piece to debut
before I turn 22

Is the best piece you ever wrote your suicide note?You were a writer and you knew how to turn your words into weapons. You weren't supposed to use them on your own skin. What made you wage a war you know you couldn't win?
Why Did you hurt the ones you love and call it art? Did the act of waking up every day burn your insides so much that
You couldn’t bear to stay on Earth for another sunset without collapsing yourself? Is that why you went away? Is it sunny there? Or warm, at least I know you didn’t like the heat but you needed a promising heartbeat and New England winters stole the color from your smile, I saw it with my own eyes. I saw you glow too and that makes me wonder why you left. The leaves fell off trees and you danced underneath, something about that felt like magic. What made you feel so free and where'd it go? You loved October air growing up, and how it filled your lungs,apple pie that just cooled off, but warm enough to heat you up. You used to eat the whole thing,
and now you can't. Did you stop hurting the way you used to here? How can we be sure? You never asked anyone for help, and now you can’t.