Everyone makes mistakes, and in that we are all alike, and that is alright.
If I died And no one knew, I don’t know. And I am scared And everything hurts
flirting with death ring the bell and run she knows it was you but she lets you go you are waiting to die.
Wet paper arrows quivering against the bright string of the bow. The arrows
Words are just words They say But if they’re “just words,” Why do they hurt so much more When they tell the truth?
It is the emptiness, the nothingness, the in-between. Is it broken? Is it maimed?
My heart Is a glass ball Delicate Awaiting somebody Who will cradle it gently
All I have to say Is I am incomplete A story left unwritten A page left unturned But that does not matter
And we were always running never to but always from and always running... And we were always hurting never for but always from
Empty eggshells Line the floor And you can’t walk across Or get to the door. You can’t reach your shoes,
The clouds in the distance Sit, patient Oblivious to my need For rain They promise the rain
As you walk away, Without looking back, I stand here, heart in my hands. I wish you had stayed Or that I’d done something differ…
What am I without poetry, Without words, blossoming on the page? I would be but a shell of myself And you would find me
morning rays peeking through the c… dancing close to you quiet stories told in the dark sleeping in movie nights
Whiteboards are erasable. Write down a message Swipe it away with a sleeve Scribble down another message. Swipe it away again.
The wind– A finicky rush That has to be somewhere else All the time. The faint echoes of summer