She's made up of lies.
There's nothing else to say.
There's always the truth.
Though that's a game she won't play.

Deception and trickery,
Is her occupation.
Something so powerful,
She could fool a whole nation.

Now she's ran out of tricks.
All her lies have been said.
There's nothing to say,
As she lay on her death bed.

You do not get to hurt my feelings and call it "art"
I will not gift you in that way
You own all the credit but I refuse to give you fame
This is not a poem
If it were it'd be titled with your name
Details about how the clouds couldn't compete with me but instead,
I am feeling that feeling with no name
And that's why
This is not a poem
As I'm lying on this bed
I will sign it and hide it within my drawer labeled 12 AMs
Because you are not an artist
They create beauty from their own pain
But you have used mine
You will never know what it said
I still love you
But I must remind you,

that this is not a poem.

I constantly forget
that my heart is much more
than a simple *****
that pumps blood to the rest of my body.

So this is what heartache feels like?
Like that time you were eight & you lost your favorite toy,
or the time your best friend moved 1200 miles away from you to leave it all behind.
No not at all.
The only similarity is the feeling after you lose it all.
Heartache is much more
deeper,
unsettling,
and dark.
It feels like youre the only one in a black hole full of hopelessness
and it's caving in on you.
everythings caving in on you at once.
& your mouth is wide open
trying mercifully to scream something
anything at all but nothing is coming out.
Your fingers ****** from the scratching on your skin
trying to write the words "Save Me",
like your insides are being ripped out through your mouth.
& all they do is stare.
& watch,
for your insides match your out.

I sit with an empty page in front of me
And an even emptier mind.
Frustration boils inside of me
But still no words come...

I let my head fall into my hands.
For what is a writer,
A poet,
Without her words?

You paint me to be a beautiful rose
with fragile pink petals
and a stem that could snap with the gentlest of touches
You tell me I should be
dainty, delicate
My lips should be soft and quiet
because there is only one thing my mouth is good for
and it is not speaking
My hands should be small, clasped within a man's,
not folded into an angry fist thrusted in the air
My whole body should be hairless
because who would ever want to **** a hairy gorilla
I know I wouldn't (oh, wait...)
You mock me for needing to go to
the library
the party
the bathroom
with at least one other girl
And maybe your jokes would be funny
if I wasn't so terrified all the time
because society tells women
"don't get *****"
instead of telling men
"don't ****"
And it's time for a change
because I may be a beautiful rose
but roses have thorns
and mine are as sharp as daggers.