I have lung made of paper bags
                                                            ­                      and a spine made of glass.
I spend my life walking on thin ice,
                                                            ­                 knowing that if I slip I will break.
I can't walk with great posture,
                                                        ­                because the weight on my shoulders.
My mind is full of cliche metaphors
                                                       ­                 and clouded with the stress of living.
The more I panic and my breathing increases,
                                                   the­ more my paper bags start to strain and crinkle.
The more I walk around with the weight I try to carry,
                                                          ­       the risk of shattering my glass spine rises.
My eyes are closed,
                                                 and my hands are ***** from trying to dig myself up.
To stop my lungs from straining,
                                                                    I stop myself from breathing.
To lessen the risk of my spine breaking,
                                                               I lay in bed and never move around.

Up, down, back and forth
Seems purely unpoetic
What a serene change

W a i s t i n g  a w a y in a world of
Hellions bent on the worldly
Extortion of the Beautiful
Rarities, Bewitching their realities and leaving
Exposed Bones and Broken Hearts on a
Dim evening, on the corner of a sidewalk.
Insubstantial, empty Words cause
Discord in Souls whose
Temperament is pure and Kind just to be
Hit in the face by Cruel Monsters.
Earnest faces of
Young Children were once
Glowing and Knowing no pain besides scrapes and papercuts,
Only to be s h a t t e r e d by this Unholy Desolation.