I ran out of ink
To write poems.
So I used my tears,
Instead
To write more.

I broke too much
of myself
thinking someone
could fix me.

I should have not
turned myself
to pieces
in the first place.

Because no one
would ever keep
a broken mirror
in their pockets.

Sometimes I forget to breath
A nagging voice, gnawing at my sleeve
My demons,
          at the gates they seethe
Begging for me to set them free
Darkness beckons me,
           with its ecstasy
Clawing from the inside, but
Outside I crack and wither
Like these scars are all that’s left of me

Picture perfect portrait of paranoia
Sunken eyes
My inner voice has distorted
Causing me to toss and turn,
and become contorted
Foreign is my reflection
The Dark Man has trapped me
With his apathy
I let him in
Depression wins

a thousand apologies more will not
make spoken words unheard

why love something you cant have?
when you can cause yourself your own pain

I took my knife out
ready to be tainted in red
and it makes me want to cry
I don't want to do it
I want to believe
we can be pure
but I'm
              r
                 e
                     d

Maybe When I'm dead
People Will know of my heart,
My fate, my words and my mind.
Maybe they'll finally care -
Finally read my words.
For my poetry is my eulogy.
Maybe when I'm dead,
People will know of my pain.
With my tears and blood
through these lines, rhymes, and stanzas -
May they see the true me.
And maybe when I'm dead,
I may finally be called a poet.