sometimes i compose
so many poems i think
i bleed them out; some
days i believe the ******
poetry nestled in my veins
are all that's left of
me.

People tried to convince me
To stop writing about you--
I would be convinced,
but you're trapped in my veins,
and i'm afraid,
the only way to set you free
is to cut my veins one by one,
until there's nothing left
for me.

Sprawled and etched underneath your delicate skin. Lines of blue and indigo travel up your forearms and push out adrenaline. Dark as ink, poisoning ones very soul. I trace the wicked lines with the very tips of my finger and you break out in shivers. The very lines that fascinate me, I want to make a home out of your veins. I want to be within your every being, I want to be the very thing that makes you feel alive.

Today
I will find my heart
where you left it

Today
I will rinse it clean
and
sew it back into my chest

Today
I will buff the scars
and watch as it inhales
red

Today
I will be fully alive

but
Tonight
I will detach it from my veins
and lay with you again

Tears won't come out to play,
Not last night and not today.
Forcing me to keep everything bottled up inside,
Have you ever felt the need to cut your skin so all the pain comes out?
I feel empty and I am hollow,
There's darkness running through my veins,
black and blue black and blue
I 'm screaming on mute.
"Please mom don't make me get out of bed you don't understand."
This is what you get when you let him in.
Don't
                 Don't
                                   Don't let him in

Sadness consumes me

Why do hearts beat?
They're not providing entertainment for the musician nor the observers.
Rivers flow without a pumping source so why can't veins?
*
Bodies of water vs bodies of people
I once watched a documentary about a woman who couldn't lie down because her blood stopped flowing.

You always looked good in dark suits with golden buttons on your cuff. Those were always a nice touch, to stand side your perfect figurine.
You were everything I once wanted. But now, you really aren't.

I see the rushing of the real truths of you, swell into your own hands, dropping a ball, losing your own special touch of sportsmanship with not much of a fuss. You're letting yourself lose the game.
Just letting ***** of truth squirt out through your veins.

You're losing your grip right out from your own polished finger tips and dripping red of blood.

You constantly try to pull white handkerchiefs of innocence from the wrists of your cuffs. But, those handkerchiefs are all just red...
Don't try and gamble a bad hand if you can't keep up. You never could keep a good bluff.