I am still awake at every 3am
Because I get scared of my own imagination
These meds are making me mad
I dreamt the other night of torturing a girl I used to know
I beat her blind with a belt with no control over myself
And I woke up and I saw her face throughout the day
Unable to stop thinking about what I’m turning into
I dreamt the other night of an elaborate funeral
I was the main attraction
Walking up to the open casket
Only to look in and see myself
My mother had dressed me in a skirt I’ve always hated
I dreamt the other night
I was staring death in the face
But really it was just a mirror
Tinged with seven years of bad luck and depression
It has broken me
I can only be found in shards of anxiety
Brush me up from the floor to stop anyone else hurting themselves
Throw me away
Throw me into the sea
And see
How long it takes for glass to turn into sand.

When I tell you that you scare me
I want you to take it as the biggest compliment
That I could possibly give you.
Because people who come and go
Who just scratch the surface and leave
Are easy to deal with.
They don’t make me believe that if I cry hard enough
All the bad will be washed away
They dont make me want to kiss them for the feeling of
Time passing and not regretting one second of it.
They dont make me fall apart like
A crumby piece of cake squished by a toddlers hand
They dont make me laugh until you cant even hear
My sound let alone my words
They just don’t make me feel anything.
So when I tell you that you scare me
Its because you make me feel things in extremes.
Its because I know that there is no possible way
That I can get out of this and not be changed
I will never be able to go back to the person I used to be
Because you wont scratch the surface
You will break me, and scatter me into a million different pieces
And maybe thats why you scare me so much
Because you make it seem okay
To not be a whole
And just be pieces of undetermined fate.

I forgot
That the geese fly south
For the winter when the
Chills begin and the air crisps
And black ice freezes death traps
On back-way roads.
"V "formation is natural
To militant
Mutual survival and
I wonder if their leader was
Born or
Made.

I keep writing you into manuscripts that I'm never going to publish
as if I could ever find a way to keep you,
immortalize you into something worth loving completely
I am never 100%
anxiety puts me on the edge and depression throws my body off it
everyday
so how could I ever find a way to keep you here?
When I can't even write you down as one person
my characters are full of your traits
he has your brown eyes which I never liked until I looked into yours
she has your intelligence, your Gemini know-it-all but still love you trait
there is a piece of you in every person I write,
in every person I see,
I guess that's how I can keep you here
Because you never really leave.

"It's good, but maybe you should write shorter," I was told.
Granted this was told to me by a man that believes the word artistic
to be closely related to the word autistic, but I can only assume that riding any
unfamiliar wavelength is terribly confusing, if not immeasurably difficult.

Knowing that you can confide in yourself, whether or not I'm misinterpreting
individual delegation for conscience, I believe altruism to be fundamental to
a person before growth can occur. Unless of course you're writing short poems.
And if you're curious enough to implement apathy, sarcasm is a fine starting point.

They say that if you want to master something you need to perform daily.
Accompany this with the old adage, "Love what you do," and you can imagine the potential.
Mastering an activity with love is transcendent, calm although sometimes piquant.
Passion and pleasure aren't identical, but imagine the potential.

I don't bleed ink.
It has to be an attempt at benevolence, to say that.
Extreme literary pretensions you must have to bleed out.
Writing should have a pulse. It. Should. Make. Each. Word. Count.

Yet, when this man told me that my words are good, but I should keep it shorter,
knowing not if I could or would, I became curious as to why he worried more about
length and not the content and story as a whole. Then I had to rationalize this to myself, and thought: It would be easier to convey words with images, like a film or animation.

But I don't bleed ink,
and I guess I don't bleed popcorn.

When I was younger,
as our lips met
I was so eager
to free you
          from your fabric bonds
I was in such a hurry
to liberate you
         from the oppressive clothing
that was strangling your body
                inhibiting your beauty
                hiding the soft curves of your skin
I treated our time together
like a small child would treat a Christmas gift,
Greedily tearing away at the wrapping paper
to retrieve the object of his desire.

Unaware that anticipation can be just as rewarding
as the reward itself

My priorities have shifted
          I've learned

Let me just lay next to you
admire you as you bite your lip
   enticing a kiss.

    Just a small one

Let me run my hand down your arm
as my fingers find yours and
   i n t e r t w i n e

Let me watch as your eyes follow mine
into the place where no words
need be spoken

I want to listen to your heartbeat
                   There's no need to rush this.

I want to get lost with you in this moment

                 Just for a bit

Before we're lost in the passion of the night