What's the difference between beauty and poetry?
Is the latter an expression of the former's reality?

Is it poetry if one is simply rhyming things?

When things are even, is it symmetry?
Or is it poetic assembly?

Is it possible to enjoy each individually,
As a separate entity?
Or is there a relationship between them,
A mutual duality?

Does it make a difference anyway?

Diamonds mean nothing to the gleam that's in your eyes.
Stars don't shine as bright and they fall right out of the sky.

And though it's clear, my dear, that the smile still fades away.
You're off to better things but we'll meet again some day.

I saw the world burn but still you stayed the same.
A source of comfort as I slowly went insane.
Eight years and counting and it's still you on my mind.
I've kept it hidden, but I'd say it all this time.

I would say I love you.
Won't you say the same?
I would say I love you,
But I hate you anyway.

Won't you come home and save me from tomorrow?
I've become so numb, won't you come and save me

The view from here is hard to feel.
An empty presence, no breath to steal.
White knuckles grip steering wheel
Taking me far away from here

I remember cold hard stares
They were making it hard to care
I swore that I'd always be there
And I can still recall the screaming on the stairs

Always saying the wrong things at the right time

Or the right things at the wrong time

And I've ran through these conversations in my head.
Thought about every word and breath.

And how I could have somehow failed to mention that:

Dear, I love you.

And if it's not
Love

Then maybe it's something greater.

And perhaps it is.
Perhaps

It is

I am bothered by the slaughter
That her hands had cost her.

"I swear this time
Is the last time."

So tell me dear. Assuage my fears.
That these tears don't flow in vain.
Your self harming is disarming.
Such an alarming way to cope with pain.

So I'm still waiting for your self hating to start abating but you won't listen.
And so you cry, afraid to die, the blood is dry. Still knife glistens.

So you wear wrist bands. Trace scars on your hands. Give into demands of your heart soaked in crimson. So draw the blade when the scars fade and don't you dare evade the questions.

Will you not come home? Are you not alone? Aren't we made of stone, of which will crumble? Is there too much strife to get things right? 'I hate my life,' she mumbles.

All of my life I've been picking at scars and scabs
Mending my bones and counting the stars and
Everything I've known has just disappointed me
But I can't let these disasters keep on defining me

All of my life I've been sitting in silence and
Watching myself be affected by the trivial things
Biding my time and biting my tongue so I
React out in anger at the breaking of illusions

Are you burning out for answers?
Have you finally given up?
Did you think you'd ever find them?
When is enough enough?

Your burning fire's fading.
Your light is dimming down.
There's nothing left of valor.
What goes around comes around.

And I believe I'm sick of me.
All these fads. And all these popular magazines.
And I believe I'm sick of me.
I'm so tired of not knowing what to

Be alone. It's all we've ever known.
But all we know. It falls apart.
Singing on and on. I've known it all along.
But now I see that everyone here's gone.

But it isn't me you're seeing.
Halo. Lights. My ears are bleeding.
Waiting for a sad song to begin.
Lost in thought, my head is screaming.
Warning signs and empty feelings.
Thinking of the things that could've been.

And I believe I'm sick of me.
All ****** up and I'm just trying not to

Be alone. It's all we've ever known and all we know just falls apart.
Singing on and on but everything went wrong
And now I know that all of you are gone.

My problem is that I have to play the devil's advocate incessantly. To the point where I turn the best of relationships on their heads and seed doubt into everything about it.

And I can't ******* help it, you know? Like, is it not bad enough to be self destructive? Do I have to be destructive too? Do I have to tear at the hearts and minds of people that love me?

Can't I just simply love them in return?

No.

I have to claw and mangle. Unappreciative and unimpressed. Emotionless and cold.

What a striking indifference. Is it a lack of self fulfillment? Is it just a masochistic need to push myself from others. Is it a plea for help? A cry for attention?

Does it even ******* matter?

We so often talk of breaking bones and slashing skin but never how to fix or deal with it. As if, in the back of our minds, we hold on to these sufferings. Because they're the things that make us feel human. And ain't it the only thing that matters?

And it's every breath, every finite movement of the hand against wrist. Every bit of our existence is a defiant stand against God. And it's God that has abandoned us. It is God who has left us all.

And so abandoned, self destructive, we break bones and slash skin. But we don't pray to God to save us. And we dare not trust our friends. Not our family. Not ourselves. We'll just wash away our sins.