OopsI'm going to kill myself.Not tonight.Probably not tomorrow.But I leave in the morning to go back to school,And I have a feeling I won't be coming home.I should probably be more concerned.Oh well.
Possible Rough Draft. Maybe.Somewhere, deep inside, there is a lead box.It was intentionally misplaced,But it's there, buried and hidden and locked up tight.The box stays closed no matter what;It is best that way.Too many thoughts are its prisoner.I don't care to visit.It's Pandora's Box with no hope,And I am wise enough to turn away.It's too much hurt for everyone.The box must stay hidden.Yet, here I am in this dark, lonely corner,Key in hand,Deciding: unbearable releaseOr annhilating explosion?There is no happy medium.
Circular ThinkingHave you ever been so unhappy that you can’t do anything:Can't sleep,Can't focus,Can't do a damn thing but sitAnd thinkAbout how much you absolutely hateEverythingAboutYourself?And then,While you’re busy hating yourself,You’re not getting anything done,So you hate yourself for that.You’re caught in a never-ending cycle of self-loathing and failure.This is my life.And I hate myself for it.
The Steps to CuttingMy arm, burning for a blade,Because of the feelings that just won't fade,I try to say, "Go away!"Instead they just replay.The blades are sitting in front of me,My hand is shaking, fighting the need,I pick up a blade, to complete the deed,The blade flies across my anatomy.My arms are bleeding, my heart is torn,My legs are cut, my feelings worn,The time right now, I feel reborn,Until tomorrow, when I'll be scorned...
Flock Echo PassionThe gentle tone of your fingersdefly handling my thoughts.You soften the regrets in my ribsweaken the bones with lovepressed into my shoes.You melt my marrow with murmurslazily spent in the morningsrested on the sighs of your breath.And youswallow my heartbeatsto keep them warmand in tune with yours.You unlock and rob my tongue of wordslike a piano with too many keysspilling its lullabies onto the floorsoftly turning the locks of my mindwith the music in youif I would only stop to listen.
The GivingToday I think I will ask Godwhy it hurts so much to give birthto a poem. And does it feel the same for men,because it was women he cursed with this agony.Is it the nature of a woman, or the nature of a poem?I want it to slip out of me, slick with the mess of emotionalafterbirth, but it strains within me, words pushing up againstthe patina of my skin, trapped inside, pelting my heart with languagelike a storm inside. Sometimes I do not think this feeling belongs to anyonebut me, and sometimes I think everyone shares it, but they hide it better than me.Are they all shuddering inside with pain, with hormones running haywire, shrieking demonsbellowing that this is not enough, there is more, there is always more, you mustpush harder, scream, stretch yourself further, because there is more to itand this is still not enough. Today I will ask God if he intended forit to be this way, if he intended for the meaning to get stuckwithin my gut, wired into my veins, if he meant for li
Ex Nihilo (Out Of Nothing)Out of the shadows of nothing,Sirens sing sweet songs of serenity,In a ring under the remorseless rain,Of those dawning tears of twilight,Heralding the end of everything.There's nothing here for me,And all these scars scare me,Eyes of eternity ensnare me.Taking apart the skin of my suffocating soul,For all my failings of fury are foul.There's nothing here for me,Though all my plain plagues me,Seizures of sorrow saves me.Playing with the hell in my healing heart,Then all my despair of death will depart.There's nothing here for me,When all those things torment me,Cries of confusion cement me.Containing in the woe from my wailing wake,Where all my feelings of fear I can't forsake.
PersephoneI fed herpomegranate kissesand she criedat every frozen sunrisefor 180 days.With cracks in my heartand soulscaught in my hairI counted 180 more.
DiscoveryI've worn this mask for many long years;This painted, crooked smile hiding torrential tears.I never painted eyes on this blackened wood,Too afraid to see the world from where I stood.Many moons have passed since I carved this face,And I...seemed to disappear without a trace.Blind I've been since the day I died;No light shines through to where I hide.This mask is tired; 'tis worn with age;It has served it's purpose as curtain and cage.I've bled from its splinters and peeling paint;Become suffocated by sawdust...fatigued and faint.I used to bleed from the core of my chest,My heart had ruptured; I've had no rest.I bled myself dry and shriveled to naught,Unable to live...as hard as I fought.My battle was lost; a strife in vain,And I tasted defeat along with the pain.Since then I've been afraid to speak;I've found myself distraught and weak.Though I bleed no longer a tempest still roils,What remains of it, my blood still boils.How long has it been since I've seen the s
Love was Built to EndureRest for a time, love- night was built for it,Built for the bed and for the warm cup of tea,Built for the kiss and for the quiet conversation In darkest hours.The day has been unkind- the year unkind.Unkind the season and unkind the wind which blowsLittls ships of state in all directions But towards home and me.The race was run, and you came in last place,You tripped, hardly made it home, but I waitedFor you, and thought about Mississippians tying yellow to trees And your delight in Lady Gray.Shipwrecked, you fold your arms and lean into my chest,The way you
August RainsI would like to believe in August rains: in days where things matter and thunderlike wheels on a train & the sky is white-eyed, staring up past her own skin, long fingers braced around a curve, long toes straight pushing dimples in the dirt. Give me a fishing line and I will move the earth.The seas are close to overflowing - laughing gods pour gold into a warm bath.There is no triumph in their hearts yet the trains move onwards, rumbling.Fish ou