We're all writers that don't know where our pen will take us,
Artists who's thoughts and emotions flow through our paintbrush,
A wall painted black, then white, then green, then multi-coloured,
It's changing,
Everything's changing,
Who are we fooling? Why pretend?
None of us are the same as we once were,
It's the demons inside of us that grow and mutate,
They puncture holes in our hearts and rip out our souls,
The deeper we sink, the more broken we see ourselves,
And the hate that we feel for our imperfections run harsh cuts into our skin,
Shivers across the lines of fields shaded red,
It's hard to keep the screams inside,
The rain behind our eyes remind me of shadows,
Pumping blood like butterflies in tunnels of glass,
The railroads to our hearts are barred with electrified wire,
Spinning webs of glutinous barriers,
Fleeting highs when fingertips touch love and trust,
Cut loose, like the strings of a puppet,
Trying to crawl back up the ladder of shattered china,
Back to that splintered paradise.

you've always reminded me of alcohol;
the way you are sweet,
yet you still make the cuts in my mouth burn.

you are the smell of cigarette smoke,
to a rebel teen with asthma.

I haven't written you a poem in a while.

your indecision gives me indigestion.

I don't need you, I want you.
I want your skin close to mine
and your lips interlocked with mine.

yes, these are all things you need to hear.

I am scared of the "l word"
but we both know that's what this is.

I'm too scared of redundancy
to write your name.

maybe I need you.

people say they are in love
when they stand awkwardly next to each other
unsure of the thought of touching the other's skin.
shift uncomfortably in silence
never daring to meet eyes
or risk blush.
yet they last.
and it's so unfair
because she doesn't know that every time
he listens to oasis he thinks of her
and he doesn't know that for that
she smiles at the sound of wonderwall.
she doesn't know that every time
he bites the inside of his cheek
he is facing the demons
that have stalked him his entire life.
and he doesn't know that
when she scratches the scars
on her left wrist
she is overwhelmingly nervous.
she doesn't notice
how he wears long sleeves everyday
just to cover up the scars
on the inside of his elbows.
and he never bothered
to kiss the angry gashes
she inflicted out of hate
of herself.
she has never taken the time
to watch how his face
crinkles around his grin
and around his blue eyes.
and he never minded
the way she ground her teeth
when she was frustrated.
she never fell in love with
how soft his hair was
and how it curled at the ends.
he never traced his fingers
across the crushed velvet
cheek as he looked into
her blue and yellow eyes.

and yet we never made it.

Ironic
The ones you let in the most
And tell everything to
They take the time
To understand


Understand your troubles
Happiness
Despair
Humor
Needs
Grief
Life

Those are the people and friends
That seem to take time
They seem to care
Pretend to care
I wish they would care
But these seem to be the ones
That end up letting you down the most

Letting you crash all the way down
I wish you were here again
What I have inside
I can't do it alone
You let me down
Disappointed