they come from all the words
left unsaid in our heads
blood from all the swords
bleach the paper red

they come from all the songs
left unsung in/at our wakes
from all our deathbed wrongs
till death do us part (for our sake?)

they come from all the paintings
left undone, hung upside down
stabbed into the wall, only waiting
for us to make our rounds

where do poems come from?
they come from us, to you
from you, to us,
from you, to you.

she's one of those girls with
painted eyes and
long sleeves in summer,
a vacant stare
and nowhere left to turn,
long red lines
slashed over years of cross hatched moon white scars.
she'll tell you dying is an art.

cigarette filter ringed with red lipstick,
she pursues her death in slow steps,
still hoping in some hidden secret place
for someone to kiss her wrists and tell her she did okay,
to fall in love with her beautiful tragedy.

and she is beautiful,
but not for the reasons she's assembled in her head.
there is nothing lovely or romantic
in her quest for self-destruction,
but there is beauty in her strength.
the glory is not in her pursuit of death,
but her ability to live.
she does not need you to save her,
and you cannot,
as much as she'll beg you to try.

kiss her lips instead of her scars.
love the breath in her lungs and the life in her veins.
treat her body like something too precious to destroy.
give her love to hold onto
while she learns to create her own.

it is up to you to love her,
should you choose.
it is up to her to decide
that death can wait.

I can't understand
how some people can stand
other people, till the end,
that really don't understand.

One day someone will love you
But you won't
and the ones that used to love you will cease their's
thinking you got someone for you

You will weep, you will cry
but the one you truly love
will have the same story of their own

What if all our thoughts
Hiding away in our head
Not being anymore there
Were told out loud, were said