I climbed out of a well
and swore
I’d never go back.

But this one is different—
it carries
the bitter taste
of suffering.

I will take all this pain
anxiety
nervousness
and turn it into poetry
Sometimes it will come out beautiful
Sometimes it will come out raw
Both
are deeply spiritual

I am so many, many parts
Of the same broken vase
I hold my weight
Disproportionally
And tilt
Asymetrically
I'm still art
Some of the pieces have been mend
Some of the lines are liquid gold
But we all hold
The pain
Compartmentalized
Surgically removed the warmth
From the heart and
The sad
From the mouth and
The pain
From the brain and
Surgically scatterend them across
Suppose
Memory is always one to be dead weight
I am the surgeon
I'm one
Unique and
Worth the same

You found this book on the last shelf
of an old, dusty bookstore
Yes
I didn’t write this to be a success
Only those who truly want to be healed
will find me

There were many times
I cried
beside you
lying in bed
wrapped in blankets
I don’t know if you heard
I only know you did nothing
I’m still waiting
for you to do something

Because you never ask
or say anything
Can’t you see I’m suffering?
I’m a nobody to you
Well, at least in the end
I’m feeling something—
anger

How come
you want ***?
Where is your sensitivity?
Don’t you see the only thing I want to do
is **** myself?
I want to cut every part of me
and cease to exist.
But you don’t look at me
not the way I want.
You only look at that head
between your legs
and the fact that it’s been so long
since we last did it…

My greatest fear
is telling someone
all the pain I’ve been through
how many times I cried
and hearing them say
it was all in my head