Red was my loved ones,
Orange my crazy ones,
Yellow my own self wonder.

Green was my choices,
Blue was my non-positive voices,
Purple my own self ponder.

But when mixed together,
Brown is the new found better, of dead dreams and feelings gone to waste.

So be unlike me,
Find who you truly see, and maybe,
Just maybe, you won't end on both knees.

Lying? Crying? Overall inquiring?
I liked myself but I loved you!
Now every breath gets questioned, perception?

Am I seeing the truth?
The heartache, anger!
You were my anchor, keeping me down on this earth.

But now my learning equals self preserving.
By questioning my own self worth.
But one thing to remember,
Even after our adventure.

It's my fault that I ever loved you.

Perhaps,
to empathise
to understand a little more
is to hurt deeply without a wound
is to hurt deeper than a wound hurts

For you try to search for the wound to find the sword's owner
to explain the scar that's to be there
But you feel your wounds without any
piercing, tearing of skin
without any escaping of blood
without any sword
or the hands that were to hold it
hands that were to be condoned by you.

But there weren't any
how does one hold his own empathy accountable?
his own ability to gaze at this world from different
or perhaps
all of the peaks.

Does it hurt when she treats you like a shadow of the millions,
because she’s the light.
Does it hurt, when you realise you only believed you had a chance
while you were just playing into her elaborate dance.

Even if it does,
you keep living
in all the things you never said
hoping that somewhere, somehow
it wasn’t just all in your head.

I know that it stings to know
she knows exactly how to reach you,
she just never does.
But for some reason, the thought of her
still makes my tormented heart stir.

So why the sadness that you’re over
when you never even really began?
Why do I mourn the life we could of had,
when it was never more than a daydream,
now a source of pain.

It hurts me that you didn’t stay,
I feel it everyday,
But I guess what I really want to know is,
Does it hurt you like it hurts me?

You know I didn't get away,                                                            ­                  
                                                                ­                                            
   unscarred, unscathed,                                                       ­                                       
                                                                ­                                                    
  you don't think that I've paid,                                                            ­                            
                                    ­                                                                 ­                 
for the way that you behave                                                           ­                 
                                                                ­                                                  
  Must I have physical proof,                                                           ­                             
                                   ­                                                                 ­              
  scratches & black eye bruised,                                                         ­         
                                                                ­                                                      
  to show the harm that you can do,                                                
                                                                ­                                              
  when you get to run
loose                                                            ­                            
                                                                ­                                                  
You think you're so
innocent,                                                        ­                    
                                            ­                                                                 ­   
  God blessed, heaven sent                                                             ­       
                                                                ­                                                  
  but the truth is you are hell
bent                                                             ­                                             
                                                                ­                                                      
  to encase my heart in cement

Why do you cry?
Because I’m so sick of not being okay.

So sick of my loss of appetite.
My constant need for pain.
Why can’t I be happy?
Wholly and unconditionally. Must there always be a load, weighing me down?
Where’s the balloon?
That I can tie to my wrist and let pull me away?
Why must life be so full of death?
So many questions.
So many answers that continue to allude me.
So I look to the sky.
To the stars.
And….
Dream.
Of a day when someone will ask me.

Why do you cry?
And I can answer,
Because I’m finally okay.

My fingers unfold the truth
on a late night poem
in a different country
than my own–
between two black cars
a street light,
wine,
beer,
and
hard drugs

untold white lies
        
        Do you know what's really hard?

         Trying to make something beautiful or ugly
          out of a lie.
      
            This is me now
talking to the reader
or probably talking just to myself:
                   There's a hole in the Earth of me
                   my tooth has a cavity
                   I have a man
                   who can't keep
                   the truth in his pants
his mouth
gets real happiness
when he can bend
what's real and what
he wants me to know
which takes away any real
chance at happiness
                                             the only real
                                             way I can
                                             find out the lies
                                             is by picking
                                             up pennies
                                             that lead down
                                            a trail
                                             to girls,
                                                     coke,
                                                        hash, and
                                                         attention
                                                           seeking,
                                                     rocks
                                                 and a hard
                                              place.

There I go again
trying to make
poetry
out of tears,
and an untrusting heart.

                                   He makes
                                 amazing poetry.
                               about nights he's lied
                             keeping it hidden
                         in metaphors
                      and grandiose statements
while I applaud and like each write.
                
                          I'm ******* stupid
                         that's probably why
                         he says he likes
                         me as much as he does

You think about
the times
when your gut told you so
or the other times
when you ate it up
like drinks and fine dining

                              Now you forget to smile
                             and things you wouldn't
                             think would connect dots,
                             begin to.

My breast hurt
and I feel a panic attack
is at the bottom of this bottle of beer

Now I can say
I didn't make a poem
cause these are just words
on a page

Do you hear each unspoken cry for help
Between my mundane repetitions? The scream,
Hoarse and tired, a frequency that nobody but me
Can hear, trapped between each normal word
And laugh that scrapes my lungs raw

Do you hear the pain that’s trapped under
Every slam of plates or creak of doors? Do you feel
The trembling of my fingers as I reach out to you
And the coldness of my body as you hug me tight -
Not even there, a hollow thing

A ghost wanders beneath my skin, searching for solace
Or maybe vengeance, or an explanation why -
She doesn’t understand that this world
Holds no such thing as justice
Nothing as divine walks this Earth, nothing like hope
Except the memory of you

And every word unspoken hangs hazy beneath my skin,
A poison slowly seeping in my heart, turning it to
Something sluggish, barely beating

Oh, how I wish you’d make me feel alive again.

I asked for petals. They gave me thorns.
I didn’t complain. Didn’t protest.
Just pressed them into my palms
and let the pain sit there
because what else can I do but accept

I asked for a home. And got walls that didn’t care if I stayed.
Rooms that swallowed my voice whole.
A mother whose hands used to tuck me in
now they just tremble, now they just throw things,
now they just forgot how to hold me.

I asked for a father.
He left his shadow behind, but not himself.
I still set the table for him.
Still listen for the sound of his footsteps.
Still wonder if he knows I am disappearing
into the spaces he abandoned.

I asked for love, but no one looked at me long enough
to see the cracks forming beneath my skin.
No one noticed when I stopped crying,
when I stopped asking for anything at all.

I asked for petals.
They gave me thorns.
And when they saw me wearing them like a crown,
they finally realized
I had stopped feeling the pain a long time ago. (Not that they cared at all)