Like you were saying,Who you want to be is already who you are.Just take a break from the smoking room,have a cup of clarity,and take a look inside.I know I'm an o p t i m i s t , but so are you.After all, what's happiness? What's good?Maybe "success," "pleasure," and "death" are all one and the same.Sometimes, when I see you walking a w a y[from me]I wonder what's behind your smile.Sometimes, I can almost see it.Sometimes, I wish you'd tell me, but then I see the c a m e r a s .They don't miss a single angle.I like to think h i g h l y of myself,But you've always had the clearer headbetween the two of us.[it's saved us b o t h before]So don't go out and tarnish it with more smoke.
exhalei loved you in stolen glancesin individual moments i wrapped up in eager dreamswaiting for a hushed smile that never camebut reflected itself in the midnight rain of my bedroom windowi loved you as a secretthat lay between the shadows of my heartand the tip of my tonguei could not whisper your name aloudbut god, did i want toi loved you boundlesslylike the wind, with no beginning and no endforever traveling across your landscapechasing the sunset resting on your horizon
the last poem i write about my depressioni want you to know that it took me yearsto figure out the worst part. cause, sure, there’sso many bad parts, there’s so many momentswhen dragging air through your mouth feelslike letting in all the water. your body becomesyour own battlefield, your mind—the mostruthless enemy. it does not cut corners.it will not spare you. it will leaveno summer-tinted memory untouched.every exit sign looks like a suggestion.if you ask someone if they are happy they will say yesbut they will not look you in the eyes.you will never learn how to feel permanent.you will drink grape juice and try to remember how it feltto be holy. you will not think of yourself as wholly,you are not complete. something vital is missing.some dark monster has been feasting on youwhen you lay down for sleep.these are bad moments. these are scars that mar your skinlike tattoos that have too much meaning, like a mapof all the dirt roads you’ve walked down.some days.some days i can
the way you speak through incisionsoh, disaster dweller, you werebone-ache blue & cyanotic.we wore lonely luminescence'round the wrists that heldour god-hands, but you werelivid skin & anesthetic to thetouch. a river of pitted veins,you said: we'll all grow weary ofthe rising of our ribs someday.
eight ways you've made me small1. I wishthis was for you.2. my journal pages - thebrown one with all our monologues -were jarred with hollow vows oflast poems ofloving meloving meloving me;letting you slip into a comaof bad memories, watching youfall to your death offa cascading cliff of diseaseand dis ease.it was nevereasy for meeither.3. there's a reason I askwhether you're grey(dark white, elusively black, in between)or blue (behind the clouds, under wave-foam,whateverthefuck runs through the back of mypalms); I'd rather haveyouthan the armsthat once held you half-heartedly. you had always beenmy harmony and Iwould have killedto have been yours.4. it could never have been just me, the wayit could never have been justher.5. disasters are not beautiful,but how is it that youmanaged to make my inner liningsconverge into bowsand explode into wings the verynight you decided to rebuild your wallsto a lower height?6. I wish
Don't Talk To Me "I'm sorry," I said, and meant it. She nodded, her expression unfathomable. "Me too." There was a long pause. "Just two days ago," I said quietly, avoiding her eyes, "we couldn't even be in the same room without going for each other's throats." She turned away. "Yeah," she admitted. "But look at us now." I continued, "And just two months ago we were the best of friends. But look at us now." This time I looked directly at her, smiling mirthlessly. "But look at us now," she repeated. Her voice was bitter. I didn't know what to say. We both stood in silence for a while, pretending to listen to the babble of subdued voices from the graduation party. "You know," she spoke suddenly, "there's nothing about how life is today that I'd have predicted during our last years there." She
The Stellar Void"Can you kill me, please?"I must have looked startled because her expectant gaze saddened a bit."I'm sorry. What?""Can you kill me?" Her face brightened as she repeated the morbid probe.Confused, I couldn't help but notice her rather familiar clothes. Faded pink jeans, knock-off Converse shoes. Little black hoodie with a torn right sleeve."You just looked a bit angry and I figured you'd be the best person to ask."I stood next to the bench. My backpack dug into my shoulder and I shrugged it off. It'd be awhile before the next bus came anyway."Why?"She looked down the street. The dim lights barely revealed the closed shops and leaf strewn sidewalks. A short breeze caused the dead landscaping out front to rustle gently but now, it seemed slightly ominous."I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked." Her voice was hollow and even though she was turned away, I could sense the hint of disappointment.Sighing, I sat on the other side of the bench. Pausing for a minute, I glanced up at the mos
wishi wish the birds would swoop downand pick me up in their wingsto take me right to youi wish i could hold your handthrough anything and everythingeven the eye of a hurricanei wish i could look into your eyeslook deep enough to see them sparklebrighter than any star or diamondi wish i could kiss youtaste those lips so sweetbetter than any honeyi wish i could hear your heartbeatlisten to its rhythm like a steady drumslowly and peacefully lulling me to sleepbut no matter how hard i wishstars can't make it come trueso i'll settle for meeting you in my dreams
2 TruthsI'll tell you a truth (for I can't tell a lie)The meaning of life that is woven insideI'll speak of the pain that has prompted my voiceAnd then sweet compassion, which gave me a choice Pain is writing in blood on the wallAnd saying, "I'd much rather suffer it all."Pain is compassionCompassion is painForget it, and soon you'll remember again Compassion is seldom a heart to be bruisedIt's saving a person who's lost and confused Pain is compassionCompassion is painBlaming yourself when there's no one to blamePain is a whisper that's dark in the nightBut bleeding for someone will turn on a lightPain is compassionCompassion is painLoving and hurting to keep yourself sanePain and compassion can suffer as onePain is what's real, and compassion is LovePain is the blood that is traced on the wallCompassion's the gift when you've suffered it all
If You Asked MeIf you asked me, then I probably wouldn't mind.I'm more open minded then you tend to assume. But then again, you'd probably never ask me.You'd be amazed at what I actually care about, because my line is thin. I can admit to not being the most artistic, realistic, and most out-going.I can admit to dreaming of my tomorrow, rather than my year from now. And I wouldn't ever mind you waking me up at 3 AM to tell me some stupid story,But you'd never ask.I'm easy-going, but I'm not carefree. I'd like to be.I'd prefer a warm night in, than spending my whole night out among the crowd of other people. I don't mind being alone, but I don't mind the company.I wouldn't mind laying on the beach every morning, and I wouldn't mind listening to all your stories. I wouldn't mind spending all my time awake, staring up at an endless sky.I'm a hopeless romantic, striving for that perfect love poem.But I guess-You'd never ask.So I guess, you might as well never know me.
I Am Number FourThe crimson rains downlike a heavy red shower.Their lips rest a frownsince the end of their hour.A slit to the throat,and a knife to their wrist.The blood like a coat,and their eyes hazed like mist.Their skin paled white,their touch cold as stone,a lost scream of fright,a cut cord of a phone.Tatters of clothes,bruises of black,a break to their nose,a skull that did crack.The murder was doneas their smile did beam.Torcher to onehad rest quite unseen.Closing the doorthey slipped on outside.The first one of fourhad finally died.-x-x-x-Time continued onAnd two more fell.One in Taiwanand the other in Hell*.I glanced at the newswith unwanted worry.It was my turn to loseso I began to hurry.Why am I in misery?Can't you see?!After number threethere rests only me.There are four-I am number four.
BulletsBulletsWords can also be like bullets.Some just fly by and miss you, not affecting you.Some just graze you, leaving a small wound that will heal over time.But the one bullet that does hit you, it hits you hard.Leaving a wound that will never fully heal.Leaving a scar that will last your lifetime.They can make you bleed heavily.It could kill you over time if no one is around to help you.If someone does help you, it will still hurt for a whileThen when the pain stops, you think you're fine.But when you look down at it, It's still there.Being a painful reminder all your life.Making you wish it never happened.But the person who shot you is affected too.At first they feel successful, But they'll eventually regret it.Also leaving a painful memory for all their life.Everyone gets affected in the end.Words are JUST like bullets.