We waste expensive lipstick
On cigarette butts
That are thrown out the window
And somehow ignore
That we do the same
With our lovers

For me to be alive I must eat.
For me to eat, things have to die,
And for what?--
An existence I can't even justify.

If only you knew
How many of both my loving and aching poems
Were written because of you.

She was like a fine wine*

Too bad it spilled down the
Kitchen sink,
along with
A handful of pills from her
Mothers medicine cabinet

If she was a fine wine,
Why did they drink her like
Cheap *****?

*And smashed the bottle
Against their exes windshield

I used to write for a reason
Now I just write to strew useless words
Information no one will probably ever
Read, my voice never again ever heard.

Most of the time,
I just feel useless
I feel like a waste of space

I’m not good enough
I’m never going to be enough
I’m too depressed to even get good grades
I have lost every friend I have managed to make

I’m a wreck
I can’t take care of myself
All I want to do is fall asleep and never wake up

She would pluck those petals
from the flowers in the meadows
taking each and every one
till the right answer had been won.
She waited through the night
till the first shard of light
bound the blooms to open
earthly decor she put her hope in.
Talk to flowers all you want, dear
tell me, if you can, what you hear
he'll be walking, won't be waiting
you'll be plucking, here remaining.