It’s one of those messy days
When nothing is quite right nor wrong
But ain’t life just a bundle of a lot of those messy days

No matter what I do, I'm always being told what I'm doing wrong.
"Just stop! You can't do anything right!"
"Why do you do the things you do?!"
"Can't you do anything right?"
As I sit in this lonely bed tonight, all I can think of is how I'm the screwup of my life.
How I will never achieve the statuses my elders have.
How I keep letting those around me down.
I am the screwup.
Nothing more and nothing less.

Lately I have been shrinking,
the keg I once proudly was
now trickles down to a pint.
For the numbers flutter off the scale
like hail violently pelting the earth.
I've lost 30 lbs in two months
and I hold my chest a little higher.
I am noticeably skinnier
such that my enemies quiet.
The weight of my stomach hardly droops
but the weight of the world
seems to have only been growing.
The world has turned into a mess
The dept has surpassed my ears
and the expenses only get taller
The pressure of marriage and family
to satisfy the woman I love requires,
the atmospheric pressure of society
and my internal pressure to become someone
has created a density difficult to bear
For every pound I have lost
Gravity gains ten thousand more
And yes my body is shrinking,
But so is my wallet, my belongings,
my spirit to keep on going
my life force that keeps me awake
and the energy I have to think straight.
Yes, my whole world is shrinking.

i can live without my feet. i can live
without anything that makes me carry on;
carry this pretty sweat of life on my hunched back.
every day i wake up and there's a new ache,
a new heartbreak to write about in the diary i burned when i was 17;

when i was sweeter and lighter and thought that drowning would be a nice way to die.

i listen to music to fall asleep,
until i get to the point between waking and the good stuff
when i slam my laptop shut and my brain says
right, now it's time to imagine you're dying, and everyone cares,
everyone is at your funeral wishing they were nicer to you when you cried over chicken breast and were in a whirlwind relationship with iced coffee.

sometimes i guess it's easier to pour the leftover ice from last night's gin and tonics into coffee. sometimes it's best to leave poems unfinished.

Messy
Not beautiful
A Something
And a lot of nothing
When time’s up
We make our mark
Or we don’t
The world watches us
Regardless

Hollowed out heart
A scoop for you Madam ?
All meaty, red & ******
It comes with a sprinkle of my emotions too

Take a spoon & have a taste
Do you feel me now ?
Or do you need the air in my lungs too ?
To feel my love.

Hollowed out heart
A scoop of ice-cream for you, Madam ?
All meaty, red & ******
It comes with a sprinkle of my emotions.

Take a spoon & have a taste
Do you feel me now ?
Or do you need the air in my lungs too ?
To feel my love.

She wished to paint with watercolors
because they bled all over the paper
Like her emotions bled all out of her wrists
but never out of her mouth

She wished there was a way to be beautiful
and still tell the truth of her messy, wild life

She was reaching for her razor blade
When the watercolors called to her
There is a better way
There is an easier way than this, they whispered
She wanted to believe it
but didn't know if it was worth the risk
didn't want to look weak

There was no pain involved in this new way
Only beauty bleeding from her heart
Instead of her skin
Was it worth it?
to leave paint stains rather than scars on her arms