This is nothing but another depressed soul

Typing away all that I know

See I've been months clean

But there is things unseen

A smile that is fake

A laugh they can't take

Beneath it all something I couldn't take

i'll forget you even if it takes me my lifetime

He writes poetry
But no one knows

He writes poetry
He writes about love
And loss

He writes about smiles
And frowns

He writes about sorrow
And forgotten towns

He writes about how lost he gets
Caught up in his own mind

He writes poetry to
And about others

But no one knows

Know one knows the depth of his soul
Because they all choose to see the exterior
And that exterior screams

Preppy
And preppy
Don't have souls

Or so they thought
Until the day he was consumed
By his own poetry

I let different boys touch me
Because I wanted to know
Even for a second
What it felt like to be loved
Even if the love was cheap
And it tasted like ***
Like the punchline to a joke
I never got because it was me

I let different boys have different parts of me
Parts they didn't deserve
But I offered up willingly because I couldn't give anything else
after you broke me
I was looking for different fingers
to place different pieces and hoping  the outcome
would be a masterpiece
Maybe one of them would find a way
to cover up the handprints you left all over me

I let different boys touch me because I had to prove to myself
you wouldn't be the only one
that these scars marking my body wouldn't define
my worth to be loved
I am not entirely sure  
you aren't the only one who could ever touch me without slightly  flinching

I let different boys touch me because that is all I have been taught
To be a joke
To be silent
To be ready to give until you have nothing left
- they keep leaving me and I am to scared to offer up anything more than my body to get them to stay

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

I often times wonder how my name tastes in your mouth
i'm sure it used to be a favorite of yours
crisp, single-syllable proclamation of adoration
a name can hold so much power
I doubt you savored the times when my name tasted sweet in your mouth
I bet you thought my name would never become sour to your tongue
would never fumble out with regret and broken promises
would never leave a burning in the back of your throat
Your name was always indulgent to me
naturally causing my mouth to form a smile as your letters positioned themselves on my tongue
Your name was an addiction
thrilling and dangerous
I say your name now with a bitter tone
It tastes wrong now
Like how when I was younger and had such a sweet tooth, but now that I'm older I crave salty things
I guess my mouth grew tired of your name
grew tired of how easily it fell
now I have to force it out
is it the same for you?