It is nothing to fill the void,
with sweet things and a metallic aftertaste,
but always i feel it should be empty, so i
leave it. There is no point
in filling an emptying pit.

And i think my socks are wearing thin,
because what was yesterday a scab
is bitter and angry today, a
gaping hole on my heels that seems
to always be wrong place, wrong time.

It is nothing to stay quiet.
What i lack in words, my body screams for me, in
bruises and amnesia and wet
ears always primed and ready for a call that will never come.

I want to feel the world
with cuts on my fingers
and kisses on my wrist.

I want to know who I
am when the numbness fades.

She tried to protect the small child inside, did everything she could. Acted like a wall for his words to bounce against, accepted the blame for a behavior which was not her own. Kept her chin up and took on a smile in front of the child, so that the child would not be harmed. In order for this to be successful, no one could know the reason this child was being protected. She constantly stood behind a barrier who kept her from reaching out, all this for the child. It took her a long time to see that these barriers where broken down long ago, matter of fact they might never been there. The child was no longer a child, it was only her. Only her and no one else in reach.

I've been writing as an adolescent, as a teen filled
with adult lessons. Somewhat a mix of all my confessions,
and a touch of  my deepest depressions.
I use them all as a weapon, to **** away all thoughts
of suicide. My escape is in the words I write. The pictures I
try to describe, in all the lows between my little highs.

I question a lot about life—like why the talented famous
supposedly have to die so early. To have never aged poorly;
they only respect you now out of paying respect for your death.
To pretend they were your biggest fan, or closest friend.

Why publications ask me for fees they know I can never afford,
to invest in your royalties, and never gave a chance to your
dreams worth. I've battling all my addictions, trying to fill
myself with empty pieces. Seeing girls for only kisses,
considering getting paid for being involved with a mistress.
Just to afford to start up my business, to help those in their poverty.
But obviously that's not a possibility, but it doesn't stop me from wondering.

I've had my fill of gluttony, in pleasing my flesh.
In the thresh of cutting away my chances of being blessed.
Pretty am a mess—while putting on my face of the best, and
keeping a little pride on my chest. I still don't know how to dance,
but I pretty much prance in my room before I write a poem.
Switch between writing a little more or riding my way into
watching a little ****.

I don't trust my morals, if they're not on a placement of their
foundations. Ethics are kind of shaky, if you spirit is out of
concentration. I'm seeking for good relations, but hate to be basic.
Or basically falling over a girl who's just hungry for money chasing.
And it's so frustrating, when the right one you rightly push off.  
And now it's just awkward for you both. I'm not to good with my
feelings around pretty girls.

But that's me I guess,
writing late hours when I should be in bed.
Acting as I if don't really care—so oftentimes rare.
A habit rabbit, that my eyes are a black hare. Self destructive,  
self distracting kind of traits. I'm in dire straits, Lord please
save me from psychotic ways.

I hope this isn't where I die today. After having the usual
psychotic break.

When I hold the knife that causes my pain
I don't think I have a right to complain
Struggling to get myself out of the bed
I sometimes wish it was a grave instead
What am I made of, if the simplest thing eludes me
I'm drowning, drowning, in my insecurity
If all I can do is write the hours away
What's the point, waiting to see the next day
If it's all going to be the same, again
Listless, choking numbness consuming my brain
It doesn't make sense, I try but end up here
Am I not destined to live away from fear?
This life, it hurts, I don't know what to do
'Get help', I'm told. How, I haven't a clue.

I used to think that ****** was the same as *****,
And therefore I was both broken and unclean.
I have learned that you can wash the blood off
And cast out the stains of yesterday’s misfortunes
That I may kneel before you and tell you
That I am still sacred in my own skin.

I am but a leech, desecrating in lilly glossed waters;
Clotting beautiful beads, like bracelets, across wet flesh.
Desire is a horseman in this world, coming to close the curtains on the day.
Why stop? For lashes from the scepter that was to guide us?
Fractured and rotten; yet we still cling for a taste of a crumb of the life once held within it's dead trunk.
Death. But an old friend and a forgotten enemy greedily tickling this slicken frame.
Fingers float tempting whispers to my every nerve and I long for my senses to set ablaze in those writhing clutches
Screaming from inside for release that teases and tingles like the ****** that never comes. Shaken and slightly shrunken
Light blazes at the doors, searing and scorching the very flesh that holds a withered frame
No longer seeking escape,
I slither back to the darkness I seem to have forgotten was home once before