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ThornOn a bed of roses
I lay softly down
waiting for your touch,
listening for the sound.
Your voice cuts holes-
tears scars into flesh and heart
but I still lay waiting,
Don't tear us apart.
Your fingers become the thorns
that make the roses hurt
while the bed becomes a grave -
nothing but dirt.
The flowers become black
as you spread your disease-
you're the death of everything,
you take and you seize.
But I give up my everything,
I sell it away
as you pluck off my petals
but then refuse to stay.
An accident I've never seen
but in a guilty late night dream
full of honest confused emotion
of a tragedy known of-
Of the car of the driver unprepared
for the upcoming scare
for if she'd known she'd never have dared
to leave her house that day
But life's not that fair.
Of the bicycle that my father had owned
carefree as always in the face of the unknown.
He doesn't see the car as it through the street roams
and now for his choices,
he's reaping what's sown.
Of the alcohol he'd drunk right before
as through his system it coursed as he poured
impairing his judgement
as the car barreled forward
He was hit
with a SLAM!
and the scene.....
it was gory
no legacy left
but a tragic death story.
IfIf I was broken
and you were shattered
Together are we whole?
If I was tired
and you gave up
Does that make us old?
If I was dying
and you were sick
would that make us doomed?
If I was buried
and you lived on
is your heart my tomb?
If love continued
without me there
would you die of grief?
If once you died
and found me there
would you find relief?
Price TagSold Off,
a product of humanity.
The consumer decides
who I am yet to be.
the price tag of living in reality.
The buyer makes me into
someone not quite me.
the consequence of society.
Living off the income
of their greed.
the picture of proprietary.
than everything 'they' need.
the entity of someone I cannot be.
Though the soul inside me knows
life costs its fee.
I've been sold off,
to this dark insanity.
To the world that ignores
every single scream and plea.
We've all been sold off,
to a universal divinity.
Have sold our souls and hearts
for coins and paper green.
Bed of GrassGrasping hands at blades of green,
I hide there in the grass unseen.
The Earth my bed and where I dream
of life and death-
the gifts both bring.
How someday I will lie there,
no longer aware of the world's greatest wonders.
I'll be that bed of tall grass.
In the circle of life
life gives all back
True BeautyBeauty never fades.
It's our eyes that weaken-
our perceptions that change.
What's inside ignored
for the outer appearance.
The soul forsaken
to a cold nonexistence.
A time where beauty was the
love that was shared
and not in her stature-
her hair that was fair.
In her eyes the same glow
you'd once lost yourself in,
but you can no longer see-
never look again.
She has not lost her beauty
you've lost your soul;
for only without one
could hers be not seen-
A sheet of pure white
blankets the dirt and blood
born of strife.
Hides from the world
all those misdeeds unclean.
Distracts from the things
best left ignored,
Snow is the shroud-
the veil over eyes
so people don't question
the hows and the whys
of the horrors that frozen rain
trick you from viewing.
You know nothing but its purity,
it's a disarming beauty.
and frozen men cold.
Snow reawakens your heart,
rejuvenates the soul.
As you lie cold and slumber
in its icy embrace,
you can disappear, be gone,
and leave not one trace.
UndergroundThe maiden girl she rocks and sways
in the graveyard where her lover lays.
Beneath the earth and the packed in dirt,
her lover hears her as she prays.
Her heart is empty, her mouth is dry,
eyes with no more tears to cry
and she wants to die -
to join her lover in the ground,
to play a game of lost then found
with the soul that had been so cruelly unbound
from the world she had shared with him-
in his love where she'd drowned.
Her wails they sound
in the otherwise silent graveyard
where she mourns-
her broken heart forever torn
with the weary forlorn feeling
she'd forever sworn
to her now unfeeling lover
decaying under foot
And she loves him with a passion
not easily found,
and like all honest feelings
Little FlyLittle Fly,
Bye, Bye, Bye
Snatched from your home
From the air
From the sky.
Crushed between fingers
And smooshed between toes
Squashed by those bigger
and squeezed by your foes.
Don't even try
Escape is impossible
You can't even cry.
I won't even lie
Your life is gone now
You've been left to die.
Now say goodbye
No one will miss you
You're only a fly.
A message to the brokenYou drown yourself
in liquid sorrows,
letting the salty mess
burn your wounds,
and the sadness
to drip in your mouth,
consuming your words
and you say
you deserve the pain,
but I want to dry your face,
and whisper in your ear
how the clouds cry too,
while they hold such beauty,
and so do you.
Pretty metaphors are for pretty girlsI told you to stop
spewing pretty metaphors at me,
for with each elaborate comparison,
I feel a bit more
detached from this world
And maybe I don’t feel so strong at the moment,
but would you be
if you felt like the entire universe
was resting upon your shoulders,
and someone was just there saying:
But you’re stronger than the powerful beats
of a butterfly’s wings
And maybe I do need more confidence,
but would you exuberate it
when the part you hated most about yourself
were the freckles that have speckled your face for years,
and someone was just there muttering:
They’re not flaws,
but rather stars that form constellations
Yes, I can’t help but hate
all those unrealistic metaphors
you choose to pelt at me when I’m low,
yet the irony is,
I know that those beautiful words
are realistic in your eyes,
So I can’t hate you.
Stand Against SuicideI know the pain is perhaps unbearable,
But darling, please put down the blade.
Release your emotions through tears and smiles,
Rather than dreading these days.
Do it for the little girl, whose mother can’t be there,
Or for the boy whose father drank too much.
For the boy who can’t sit in elementary school,
Because the bruises from Daddy hurt to touch.
For the teenage girl lying face down in her bed,
Thinking, why can’t it all be done?
For the elderly man looking up at the stars,
Counting the days one by one.
Do it for the children who wonder, does it end?
For the ones who feel left on their own.
For the ones who think, maybe it wouldn’t be so hard
If I didn’t feel so left alone.
And finally, do it for one other person,
The person in front of these words.
Because you’ll never know how it gets better
When focusing on pain and hurt.
Live one more day, dear, for them and for you,
And I swear to you, problems will fade.
I know, for right now, it’s p
dark circlesi haven't slept well in 14 days
my eyes droop pretty colors
'50 shades of purple and grey,
they're bags and they're designer'
making jokes is how i cope
with chapped lips and constant chap-stick
it tastes like honey and mint
i laugh and say i'm addicted.
hooded lids and sleepy smiles
during lunch at subway
my friends ask if I'm okay
I say that I'm just tired.
but really when I see him with her
my heart sinks to the tiles
she's pretty and witty and sure as hell she can sing
and i'm just a loud bone-collector.
when I see her with him,
dancing and laughing and grinning,
the ring on her finger
laughs at my singularity.
for as much as i lie and as much as i try
my loneliness still creeps in,
because no matter how much they protest,
i'm still the lowly fifth-wheel.
walking behind them on sidewalks
that are wide, but built for four
smiles and laughs when they look back
but the frown creeps evermore.
pelvis peaks through paper-thin skin
and knuckles white and pale
my ribs are empty, my bo
Clear WristA clear wrist, barren of scars,
as opposed to skin sauntered in marks,
tells a trickier story than it's soiled and raw,
uncaring, unkempt counter part.
Bravery, I think it holds,
the strength to bare unimaginable loads
of pain and suffering through endless times,
and withstanding the agony of sleepless nights.
Some think it is fear, the reluctance to cut,
but I believe it opposite, it show courage and guts.
To bear your pain without a nick on your wrist,
is like a solider braving his terrain while being torn limb from limb.
Agonizing as it is, to hide your pain,
you do it so well, and no attention you'll gain.
At the end of the day, it's not cry for attention,
rather a cry for the victory that's silently mentioned.
Your scars are those not self inflicted,
and despite the gnawing intention,
to harm yourself and ease your pain,
the scars you earn are rightfully gained.
In a room of those who have jumped the gun,
and left traces of blood deep in their arms,
do not be tempted to do the sam
Coffin BoxI lie down in my coffin box
Where I play pretend
Look, mommy, I am dead!
I guess this is the end.
I lie down in my coffin box
It's where I go to sleep
I do not own a bed
my home is on the streets.
I lie down in my coffin box
but it's melted in the rain
Death is not pretend now
It lives in tears and pain.
I lay down in my coffin
Now, one that's made of wood.
A brand new home in a brand new box
and where I'll stay for good.
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