The worst part of writing with a quill
Is when the stories don’t flow no more.
After a point, there are no more secrets to spill,
Without sounding shrill and repetitive,
And falling to the floor, tired of this ****,
Trying to make your words sound ‘lit’,
While in fact just disappointing your readers
Just that little bit.

He stared down into those deep brown eyes.
He loaded the gun.
He took a deep breath.
He sighed.
It was now or never.
The small, gentle hands of the young boy were trembling, scared of the reflection, showing him holding a gun to his head.
He decided.
He couldn't take it anymore.
He pulled the trigger.
But not before he moved his hand away from his head.
The mirror in front of him shattered.
Society's opinion of him was in a similar condition.
But for the first time in months, he smiled.
Unlike the millions before him, he defied the world.
He was alive.

The church bells went for the last time in the day.
Bands played music in the streets.
The wanted man was running home.
Scaling the rooftops, he jumped from building, unawares of details as he evaded the cruel, corrupt cops that chased him down the long winding streets.
Eventually he stopped, seeing the distance between the pursuers.
Thats when he saw it.
The sky was a stunning shade of purple.
The peace that the set sun had brought about made him realize that it simply wasn't worth running anymore.
He stood on the ledge, getting ready for a leap of faith, when She stood by his side.
He reached home, he realized with a shock.
"Time to go?" She asks.
Her startlingly green eyes bore into his deep brown ones.
With a smile, he realized what she was asking.
Turning towards the sky, and glancing back at her, he figured.
There were worse ways to die.
He nodded.
And they jumped.
And they kept falling.
And they never stopped.
Turns out that was their punishment for their life's crimes.
But they didn't care.
They were dead.
But they were together.
And they were finally free.

I wake up seeing bruises on my body.
Huh.
Turns out self harm can knock a person out
Just as much as her smile does.

What is Poetry?
When your legs are numb,
Blood parching in your veins,
Throat choking from the pain,
And the fingers hitting the keys of the keyboard ceaselessly,
Trying ever so hard to create something impetuously,
Its poetry, you type.

When you dream of the possibilities,
And in what was once unimaginable,
You make the reader believe,
And change the way how their life, they perceive,
Its poetry, you dream.

When you play with words,
Just as an artist would play with colors,
To create a masterpiece,
That reaches the depths of the reader’s soul,
And burns them inside like coal,
Its poetry, you paint.

When you thread
Your fears, your desires,
Your insecurities, your pain,
All just to stay sane,
Its poetry you weave.

When your heart is melting
Like wax candles once lit,
And drops of tears smudge the ink,
To your knees you sink,
Its poetry, you bleed.