I will set my hands ablaze and let my demons come
The darkness I've gone through turns to help some
Rejoicement and fire will pour fourth from my lungs
For when the waters rise, my faith will be sung

My Pen is filled
with ink and feeling,
It helps me to pour
my heart & helps me in Healing.



My heart skips a beat
when the thought came
in my mind like whine,
what if it denied to drop a line.
©Yukti

When I was thirteen
I thought that I wouldn’t make it through the year
birthdays felt like due dates
that I was never going to make
and each day brought me closer
to my ultimate fate of nothingness.
My bones felt like they were
filled with lead
and my eyelids sank as if they
only knew how to fall
like the rest of my body
into sleep.
I thought each moment was
a ticking time bomb
that was going to blow up
and leave my family to mourn
the life of someone who chose not to live it anymore.
I was so broken by my own brain
that nothing seemed worth it
and the easiest thing would have been
to step into the water
and let my leaden bones
pull me down.
When I was thirteen
I saw nothing but emptiness
within my own chest
and a body that would soon be useless.
When I was thirteen
I did not know what the future held for me
with laughter and love
and everything I would eventually dream of.
When I was thirteen
I was wrong
about most everything,
especially that I would never make it
through the year.

One.
I am broken
fully shattered by myself and others,
trying to pick up the puzzle pieces
I’ve been left to find.
Worn into a two edged sword
that has cut my skin and left me unloveable.

Two.
Some days it will seem like I am cured.
I will look whole,
as if a miracle came from heaven
and fixed my aching skin
and wrapped me up in something that will never happen.
I will seem okay as if everything before was just a phase,
but I need you to know that tomorrow
I will be me again.
Jagged lines drawn across rainy skies
that never quite made a connection.

Three.
I am trying.
Can’t you see from the bags under my eyes
that this is eating me alive?
I was two steps from Hell,
but now I am four,
trying to dig my way back to sanity.
There is peace in giving up,
but I have opted for chaos.

At 12 years old
you learned the majority of stars
were already dead.
They are masters of deception
giving you hope that beauty
is permanent
and love is forever.
You learned that love
is too often a lie
and promises find themselves
shattered on linoleum floors
that you step on in the night.
At twelve,
you learned that your bones are fragile
paper thin like the birth certificate
you’ve never seen,
buried under other things
you never really cared about.
You found truth
at 3 am in your bedroom
followed by rivers of tears
and open pill bottles.
You saw life
and you saw death
and sometimes those nights
when you were twelve
are the only things that make you feel
like the world is real.
When you were twelve
you found out the stars were dead.
When you were twelve
you found out that you were not.

A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
lock yourself in a room,
scream until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your veins and bleed
until you know that your bones
are pure words and sorrow.
Act as if you slit your own throat
and all you can bleed
are your own regrets
and all of the darkness
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
tell her you're leaving
and you won't be back for awhile
Because being a writer is traveling
through all seven layers of Hell
and denying anything is wrong.
Forget loving yourself
when all you have is a pen and paper
fused to your wrist
and Jesus is tapping at your skull
saying turn back now.
Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning
It's just your soul
clawing at the front door trying to get in.
Learn how to be alone.
Learn how to lose everything you have
in order to feel release,
learn how to only feel deceased
from now on.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
don't