You said my pain was so poetic,
And I was cutting myself to the bone,
Squeezing the blood on the pages so you could hear me,
Nothing about my suffering is poetic,
Screaming into my sheets and trying to claw memories out of my chest,
Burning myself and forcing me to remember things I’d rather forget,
Breaking down crying and begging to be laid to rest,
You called me a beautiful tragedy,
But I believe you can only have beauty,
Or tragedy,
And I am the latter.

I am having nightmares,
And as such,
I like my nightmares
Very much.

there is nothing,
that could stop me
from not doing it.

Prejudice and pride
Something we want to hide
Yet it will still show itself

i used to think of happiness
as a destination.
some place you got after
working really hard.

you might have to endure a lot
to get there
but once you arrived you realize
it was worth it.

it took me too long
to see
happiness isn’t a place.
it’s a feeling

and if you get absorbed in
the idea of finally
reaching a point where you’re always happy,
you never will be.