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I cannot feel
or reel in the things that i deem to be unreal
There's a blank spot in my heart a pit
that's been teared open and wholly ripped apart

Do not dare falter or stumble in your path
Do not scorn or scoff at this nor dare lay a frown
Do not look down at me
and see as if i am some widowed gal reaching out her hand

I pretend to know where the bird lays it's nest
Pretend to know the flowers are here to stay
but that's a play pretend, i know nothing except the horrors that stay grey and feed all day
I pretend to smile and seem as if i hadn't been bleeding where i lay

Go on with your path,
falter not at the widow least you desire to face it's wrath
Go on,
least you find what's missing then serve your hand,
Good man

Lemons into lemonade...
That's what they tell me.
It's so hard to make lemonade
When your wrists want to bleed.
The juice stings my flesh
And I just want to end.
The scars remain on my flesh
A reminder of my friend.
Pain is the only one I can tell
Nothing else is real.
Other people will spill and tell
The secret of how I feel.

Lemons into lamentation
That's all I have today-
Nothing but hopeless lamentation-
Until life stops dumping lemons on my tray.

~every distance is a long shot
within reach of a fool~
                          Prv. 𝑓:𝑦

bleed your heart out in dripping
poetic pretense―slip
that inky salamander some silk:

         "the wilting waiting flora
bequeathed their busting bouquets and
     bountiful bosoms unto the world
              in all of its prescient
                       violence"

then read it back to yourself
later and be
absolutely disgusted.

throw it away with all the other
things you've done in your
life.

now reach back in your closet
and rattle the skeletons
lingering there.

finger your dreams in the
dark under pressure
from the mind
to find yourself.

the lightning severance
will sing and
anxiety will
harmonize with the knife.

you've done it again...
****** it all up
and everyone
knows it.

you could eat all the erasers
in the world
and your **** still
wouldn't come out correct.

a lifetime of valleys and
seawalls has made you
an avatar of
effortless blunder.

and you can't stop bleeding
all over the page; white
is red again
cause
you blue it.

bleed in―breathe out
breathe in―bleed out
bleed in―breathe out
breathe in―
bleed out...

welcome to the creative
process.

I'm laying on a bed of nails
Waiting for the phone call
To be the hand on my chest
To push me down

Are you aware
Of what you force upon me?
My emotional well
Is dry and I've beaten my head
Against the stones
Bleeding until there's enough
To pour onto a page
Why do you call me so ******* late?

Why do you even bother
Calling me
At all?

With a thunderstorm at your finger tips
You've peeled the side of my neck with your lips
I've never felt anything like this sin before
I could feel the electricity run through my body
As I realized I needed you..
Like my blood cells need my veins.
Our throats always swollen from fear of yelling more, so we whispered lies as they burned the back of our tongues.
Hoping to heal our decapitated hearts. Pounded by the butcher of love
We were nothing if not completely raw those days.
Now we wish for someone to hold us under the sheets while some ****** movie plays but we can't help being ***** little ****** and tasting everyone the world has to offer, and yet...
I still can help but wish for sleepless nights by your side.

So I'll be doping myself again with pointless regrets, off of worthless memories that mean little more than the hateful meaning I give them.
Now I'm just hanging.... bleeding.
From the barbed wires of life.

Watching

Waiting

Hoping.....

your heart unmasks
to a dagger, already deep into my atriums,
until my muse is replaced
with the bleeding, and each stanza
is your shadow

in shackles. a poem is just a poem
until you perceive it
out of paper—in the silence,
scratching against your skull—until

it begins to burn, your body
bright-blue beneath, your secrets
streaming out like incense—until
it is a grave, with you
more alive in it.

a poem is just a poem until it bites,
until it howls, until it makes
our memory its metaphor
for midnight.