Everyday I visit the only writers block I know to hone my words and wit and help them cut deeper into the skin

Forever seems like so long until I think of all the times spent waiting

I write sharp words with a sharper knife on page after page of what might as well be the skin of my back

I see no joyous rebirth in spring for autumn will bring another death I see no joyous rebirth

I wish you had told me that on the good days kissing you would make me think that I knew what happiness was and on the bad days

Under the weight of life I forget how to breathe and I feel suffocated I hesitantly make peace with the world

There is something to be said of a true friend One who will pull the knife from your back One who will stitch the wounds

I’ll keep searching for the meaning of life and I hope I find it as crumpled paper nearish a trash can