who would want what was once torn by another
stained by its previous owner with late night tears that seemed too hot and heavy to be real,
with pages slipping out,
one by one, ripped apart at the seam
who would want what was marked by another

you’re right,

no one would

The dungeon of my mind has no windows, it has no doors, there is no escape. Only the cold floor, it's always dark, there is no light. The fire in my soul is dying, I've lost all hope. I'm drowning in my self doubt. Most people fear death or heights or some outside force, but my biggest fear is the darkness inside my mind.

im magic to the touch
bring me back to life
it's not time to die
no not yet
i still need time to fly
i still
need and consume
it's all im good for
inhale drugs
exhale flies
i can't suffer without your lies
oh understand
i am nothing
nothing but alone
pitiful and disgraceful
undermine that im distasteful
i eat flies to make my face full
cry so that i can't pull
a life so ungrateful

seven shades of **** and puke
stuck to the soles of my shoes,
eight days straight drunk before noon.
new flat, new friends,
all blowing smoke and jostling me
through musky basement staircases
into dismal dust filled rooms.
where you're waiting for me with
this heavy fog that clogs my pours and follicles
making me feel dumb and unclean.
making my words wet and sticky,
they cling to life unyielding,
falling at my feet, falling short of expressing
their own inadequacy.
and i shuffle uncomfortably around
in the puddle of my words. they
stick to the soles of my shoes like puke,
and the stench summarises me perfectly.

I guess it really was my fault;
For I did not ask you to stay.
Not even when you left the door ajar,
As if waiting for me to run after you.

But it was you who had to run after me, my dear.
Not me.
Not me.