nineit's funny how carefulwe are aboutdamaging ourselvesproperly
sixhe plucked six white rosesfor meand even though they'll diein a week,it's matchless to any other gifti've received
tenI've politely declined deathfor maybe the seventh timebut he's a rather persistentfellow; he never lets myfingerstray toofar fromthe trigger
Yesterdayyesterdayi nearly disposed ofmy existenceand i still have to wakeup, caked in a layer ofunfeeling burn marks, justto be swallowed by crowdsof ignorance again.just because i'm notcoughing up a lungdoesn't mean i'm notsick, and if you won'thelp me slay this monsterby giving me over to ahospital for souls, it's yourown damn fault i'm nevercoming home.
-six word story-kiss me till my sadness melts
Fatefate is the slutwe take out fordinner in the LasVegas of life.She fucks us andthen leaves us ina dusty hotelroom, with only ourempty pockets andthe sun bleachingour eyes dry
11:47roses are redviolets are bluecompliments mean nothingwhen coming from you.don't tell me i'm skinnydon't call me fatjust acknowledge i'm humanand leave it at that.
Hookedhe got attachedlike velcrobut iwas fused to himwith super glueso whenhe pulled awayit stung me harder
Ghostsin the pivotof a single minutei shrugged off a years worth ofwar scarsheart attacksburning eyesand lonely ghosts
Why do you cut?"Because it's a pain that I can control when it stops, whereas the pain inside. It doesn't stop. It never stops. It's not control over the pain I need, its that power to decide when enough is enough."That's what she told me when I asked her why she cut. But that wasn't the whole truth. And as the tally etched down her legs, the reverse of the marking of ages against a doorjamb in her parent's house, I saw another truth. I gave her space until she felt safe enough to say it out loud. An addendum to the truth:"I need the scars, I need to be able to blame them for being unlovable. Need to be able to blame my past, my craziness, the pain and those who caused it for being unlovable. For no one wanting me. Need them to cover my body so people see them first and the shape of me second. I need them as a mask. Because if the scars are gone then the truth is obvious. That no one wants me because of my body first, and my mind second.. and I can't blame anyone but myself for those things. The sc
she's gone, she's gone.don't tell a broken girl withgrief pouring into the juts of her cheekbones,hunger suffocating into the curves of her ribs,that her eyes are madeof moonlightand her hair was weaved fromsunshine when you arelight years away and millennia too late
I saw the tornado in your eyesSo you learnt to hide your hurricanes,You hushed your storms silent,And hid the seams in your bruised heart,You found cracks beneath your gentle smile.(G.L)-I saw the tornado in your eyes
Gluei left your sorry assto decay in the dustbecause my arms hurtfrom carting aroundall the glue it tookto fix you.
oneeven the golden memories go sour
.all we are is cheapmetaphorsgoldfish drowning inthe ocean, birds that forget how toflap their wings, mid-flight
GuillotineThe guillotine chopsThrough sandstone,Rusted blood andWhite rock,Before my voiceEven had a chanceAt redemption
eighti run with scissorson purpose. i don't havea death wish, I just hideall the bullet holesi've collected upon enteringthis cruel world. being impaledcan't hurt much more
Foolish...You can't undothe damage done-You can't relivethose lonely years-You can't resuscitatesomeone who haslong ago since drowned...And you cannot menda broken heartwith the useof a simple "I'm sorry."
behind, and to the righti.you were a seriesof battles won--kaleidoscopic memoirsof your strength litter the kitchen bench,something to hold on towhen the need's clutching, starving, wasting you awayii.twelve months soberundone by one hourdrunkthe vodka bulletdismantled a personaalready brittle-bonediii.you lovedin jagged pageturns,like tomorrow wasalready a memory,and one day, tomorrowstopped visitingiv.you died on valentine's day;symbolism gifted in the formof a flowing red bouquetand desperate hopelessnessat least, that's whatthey didn't say,once the war ended.
.spring opened up hisarms to mebut winter stole my heart
.she'll hold him tight tonightand dread the coming mo(u)rning
wishesi am not a flower,if youtear outa piece of me,stomp ithalfway between cracks in the sidewalk,it will only die.butour lips fit togetherperfectly, likeall the broken pieces.[maybe it was just a dream.]
...when death put its handon my shoulder,it shivered;i was alreadycold.
He Died In May.His empty eyes,Were filled with pain,And those fragile lips,Stained with smiles.There was warmth,In his touch,But it always left,Tendrils of ice.His musical voice,Fell like midnight snow.Each word a note,In his own requiem.It was years agoThat I first saw,All the demonsNested in his head.I was arrogant,Foolishly believingThat I could save him,From himself.He'd been dead for so long,A ghost with human skin,But no one could ever see,Behind his gentle grin."I'm hopeless"Were the last wordsHe left for me,On that bitter note.He died in May,So many years back,But they pronounced him deadLast June.
To you who write until you bleed and cry and diei. You aren't the ruins of Greece.You don't combust into fascination when the blackrose you planted years ago finally bloom and poisonyour veins and stop your heart beat in black splotchesand dirty grenade. The Earth won't mould trees orocean or clouds into your image when rust seeps intoyour wrist, turning you into a sculpture of grey handsand silver blood. You won't smile knowing a spider iscreeping up your throat, spider webbing your tongue and robbing your voice away.ii. You can't tame a wild boar with tombstone nails.You don't have to get why your wounds rot likethe speed of a full-on hail storm and why othershave bowstring smile and pretty eyes all thedamn time. You don't have to know why yourmusical box blasts in gunfires and thunderboltswhile other have rose tattoos exploding in fiercefireworks and adrenaline-rushing stage fire. Youcan't tame a wild boar with tombstone nails andscraped metallic heart. You can't love yourse
SolitudeFrom dusk to dawn,my soul...it lingerscold andalonein this desolate placethat we callreality.Though inhabitedby many,these arebleak andforsaken grounds.I feel thatI'm trappedwith no way out,no escape,no blissawaiting me...Without a future,without a purpose,my yearning soul...it roamsthis earth;this grave...As the darknesscontinues toconsume me...As the numbnessfeeds onthe remnantsof my sanitya littleeach day.
Don't Throw Me AwayI'm being discarded.Thrown away.Sold.For 69 cents.There's a lot I can't do.I know.And I wish I could,but I can't,yet still I offerto do anything you ask,anything within my ability.I'm sorry.I'm sorry.Please,don't toss me away.I'm sorry for my shortcomings,forgive my inadequacies,please.Use me,bruise me,humiliate me,deface me,just please,please,don't forsake me...
twothese scars will meltwith time, but the emotionsare forever branded tothe hour that birthed them andthe strangers they belong to