~

I'm standing here

       In this doorway

   Halfway between where I have been
And where I will go

     *And I can't help but cry tears of joy.

A tree's shadow moves with the sun
As i melt into your velvet arms ,

8 days, 8 days I was living, breathing and sleeping.
8 days.
Ocho- meaning 8 in Spanish.
Acht- meaning 8 in German.
8 days since the last time I self-harmed.
8 days, isn’t that great?
I have had a few breakdowns and I have cried a lot in these 8 days.
I feel the urge to cut.
Feelings are overwhelming me.
I’m sad and happy, delusional and anxious.
I get nervous over the simplest things.
I can’t live.
Cutting, cutting was the way I dealt with things.
It was my habit, everyone has one.

Poetry is like painting
That speaks
Painting is like poetry
But silent

If the person you love
Is truly
Holding you up
Then there's no way
You could fall
For someone else

It isn't easy.
Once you've grown
wise enough to realize
that the little ones are the only good humanbeings .
Your back is already worn out like
well read paper back.
And your heart ,your hearts
been hardened by too many cigarettes and too many
pretty faces who always came and  went a bit too soon.

You got to hit your rhythm right before you reach the apex .
Then Like that first time we tried DMT
just sit back and enjoy the ride.

You gotta barrel through it all .
The burdens of society.
The addictions
The struggle between what you
want to do and what makes you
enough to keep her happy.

We're cursed with such a narrow perspective.
Unlike the bare butterfly who
lives out their time in all Realities.

If you dont listen to Frusciante
you might not understand me today.

Learn how to survive with the least
amount of your abilities
and call this progress.

Decay always begins once growth ends.
And there ll be plenty of dreams to **** tomorrow .

this is the last poem
that I'll ever write
the very last lines
i'll set into rhyme

giving the thoughts in my head
a much needed rest
with nothing else left
that needs to be said

this is the last poem
i'll pour out on page
any left over words
i'll give them away

maybe somebody else
could use them to say
a few of the things
they've been unable to say

the very last poem
to come from this hand
with all that's been said
no need to say it again

i've weaved tapestries
from beginning to end
now feel the need
to set myself free
and set down this pen