.love grewand died repeatedly;she tore it out atthe root
.you were a passingstorm, a tornado scribblingyour name in the sand
.i dug up thepast again, thosememories viciousand snarlingi set them looseinside the houseand now we haveto leave
.and if you evermanage to get inside myhead, i'll wish you luck
.some thoughts get so loud thatyou cry out for them to leave;they scatter like birds startledout of their trees, before landingagain where they wereand after a while,you just have tolet them sing
.he stood on the shore,and told the sea he loved her;the jealous wind tore hisvoice in two
.the breathin my lungs -you tookeverything
.you pulledall the strings;now i connect morewith the puppet thani do the puppeteer
.does a weedever wonderwhy it isn'ta flowerdoes a treeever feel likeits roots areholding itdown
.your heartalone shouldremind younot to beatyourself upyour pulseshould remindyoukeep steady
.just try not tothink ofthat memory, that onewolf that callsfor the restof the pack;you'll spend allnight howlingwith them insideyour head
.everything i hold deari hold too tightly;i am so sorry you weremarked when i had tolet you go
.hell isthe devil's chest,an empty red cavernhe's simply tryingto fill
.you brokea heart,convincedthat there wassomething goodinside
.some people are deadlong before they die -there's just no burialor cremation,no funeralfor the spirit
.you're afraidto let anyonestoke the firein your chestfor fearyou will burnthem alive
.sometimesthe voicein my headdecides tocurl up inmy throatinsteadand sometimesthe beat ofyour heartdecides tomake itselfknown throughyour fists
.in the nighttime you arebetter; moonlightembroiders yourskin and stitchesyou up with apurer love, untilthe morning comes,the sun runs histeeth through yourseams again, splitsyou open
Endorsed By The Surgeon General.She was like cigarettes.She took his breathaway,and filled his lungs with promisesthat evaporated likesmoke.
LungsMaybe ifour lungsexhaled moneyinstead ofcarbon dioxide,we'd valuelifea little more(or maybe we'd just go broke).
Atelophobia Atelophobia The word sticks to my tongue like cotton candyThe sweet, fluffy combination of lettersstruggling to embody a correct connotationAnd even the dictionary definition seems sugarcoated:"Fear of imperfection."Is that what they say when I'm up until 3am,editing my English paper for the umpteenth timeThe tick-tock tick-tock of the clockpromptly proliferating the roomAnd I just sit there changing good to great,and peaceful to quiescent,hoping that my teacher will be drunk in his bungalowwhile he grades my chicken-scratch calligraphyAnd he’ll see stars instead of how horrid it isOr is that the word they use,when I struggle to consume a 25-calorie chunk of chocolatebecause I just know it will go straight to my hips,or when I step on the scaleand watch the black dashes zoom bylike a carousel spinning,And as the twirling and whirling makes me sick,I know throwing up still won’t make me thinAnd is that the term they mutterwhen I'm sob
Keep your secrets, wolfgirl.I have been suffocatingon the stars of my pastlike horny gentlemendo with innocent lookingwolfgirls at 3am- their bitefearless as thieves.My lilac lungs are breathing indust and the tears of Saturn’snameless moons,while the rest of me -well, shes warm off wineand poems leftunfinished.
VeinsI wishmy veinsof ocean blueflowed not justto my heart,but toyours too.
A lesson in realism:you areonly human.There is no suchthing as stardustfloating in your veins orgloomy poetry stitchedright into your heart.Your blood is made ofiron - unbreakable,unbending and unmatchedby any other stronghold,for you are a fortressthat they will never invade.Stand up,darling;wipe those tears awayand know thatyou are the only onewho can reinforce these walls.
you're so blind.here i am drowningand you have no idea what to do,you're so lostand panicking.why don't you take your handsoff my shoulders?
( 4/02/2014 )It’s day two& I already feelshriveled, lungless,overworked.I’ve been livingout of my suitcasesince I got home,sleepingon the couch &leaving my laundryon the floor.Everything in my refrigeratorscreams 12 days too late& rent money is due.She’s slapping mein the face,you see.Depression,that heartless bitchwith the longspider legs& hot mouth-she enjoysthrowing meinto furniture-up againstthin walls& having her way with me.
WritingI am a writerI write whatI wish I could sayTrapping my feelingsOn paper everydayI am a writerI write whatI see around meMy eyes; wide openHave set me freeI am a writerI write whatI need to doClear and confusedJust give me a clueI am a writerI write what I feelAnd I feel what I writeBut when I stop feelingI stop writingAnd my little worldStarts reelingI am a writerWho writes to find reasonAnd maybe even some treasonIn this worldWhere insanity rulesBehind a piece of paper marked:"Here are the fools"
.i shudderwhen you speak;your words arecold when theytouch me