Hearts Beat As One

You ask me how it feels

to see the world in dark variation

where the bright blue sky makes me want cry

for it is too bright for my bitter heart

And I answer you

that there is no feeling

not like when you are layed down

under the stars gaze

and the scratches along your skin

are from my own bloody hands

You ask me why I need to see your tears

as they flow over your supple cheeks

and into your smiling mouth

because you know why

and I need only to lean down

to whisper, "Your mine"

You ask me what I want

as you flip me over

where the floor is cold from the night sky

and chills run up my body

And I answer you

that I want everything

and nothing

because you are an empty being

as empty as me

who craves something to ease the hatred

that oozes out of our words

to stain innocents hearts

And this

this is why I ask you

when I flip you back around

and I lean my grin close to your chest

and whisper, "Let me in"

Will you let me in?

So that I can dig deep inside whatever tomb lay hidden

beneath your skin and your bruises

to reach that inner roar you hold

Because my final question could never be spoken

for it is air itself that we breath

that answers it for us

And when my hands wrapped your neck

it was never meant for harm

but to show my deepest regret

because I am so ashamed to love you

Letters for Wounds

See me at my worst.
I am broken. A disaster.
There are days, I admit, that my hair gets a little greasy. I eat enough so that the idea that I'm a monster isn't real any longer. The 40 pounds I'd gained weren't to throw at you like it was your doing. I swear it.
The doctor said I have problems. He said I don't react well to problems, and the only way to fix that was to take some medicine. Little pills that are supposed to fix how I treat you.
My father told me I wasn't worth his sperm today. My mother seemed like a kind woman, and died one too, I'd like to hope. Everyone says I have her smile. I could never find out because every time I try to smile my teeth get in the way.
Remember when you cut your finger? I do. It was with that sharp knife used for some bread. It was too hard too cut anyway, so I don't blame you. You sure yell a lot when your pinky bleeds. Blood looks like the paint you gave me for christmas. Could I borrow your blood for one of my sketches one time? That would be the best present ever.
I'm supposed to see a doctor for more of these little pills. Their green, like the lakes you took me to feed the ducks once. The memory of it always helps me swallow it more. Like I'm swallowing some of you. One of the effects is supposed to be sleepiness. So far, all I do is lay in my bed thinking of you. Is that what sleepiness is? I sure don't like it. 

Without Warning

Your words
They have bruised the outer edges of my heart
And I would love nothing more than to tattoo
These feelings of elation as the bruises become indented
Into skin and bone

Your neck
With its little hollow shadows
That make me want to grasp every inch of you
and lose myself in this experience

Could I kiss your cheek
and whisper sweet nothings
if it meant holding you
for another day?

This is becoming something so much more
than I ever hoped to have

And yet nothing has really been said
Other than these simple fantasies that spread
Like a flesh eating virus
Carving delicious wounds into my blood stream

The truth is seen right before me
And as I turn away
These mirrors make me see
That the truth is but a lie

For this fantasy I am seeing
is something so close to love
and lust
and I am losing my mind

But baby take my hand anyways
Like the ghost in my head has done 100 times
and tell me this is right

Because my will has dwindled to a mere penny
to be dropped in these dirty streets
And I need your love

Your soul is my weakness
and my happiness
A cure that will break and bend every crack in my feet
That leave me permanently stuck here

Waiting and saying nothing
But smiling all the same

Mother, May I?

You know, luv, I've always been one to stray
far from a closeness to the land I walk upon.

The grass made me itch and the sidewalks..
they were too dirty for my beat up shoes.

If you can live long enough to see
then we will find a way to some savior

But I've been cursed with this gift of hearing
everything that needs not be said

Because your eyes told me your waiting
To wake up to a life not able

Where dreams are the howling of wolves at midnight
and breathing is almost as simple as smiling

The world is waiting behind a silver dish
And were too afraid to lift it

No more the smell of morning dew a sweet scent
but a vain attempt at feeling anything but ourselves

Cause this courage we seek has run off to the hills
and hidden itself deep below our feet

For suddenly our years is just a number
that counts the time till the blood in our bodies run dry

And the blue of our eyes
turns a dull white glare upon itself

To grasp the grounds of hell
and whisper

"Welcome Home"

Confidence

It seems I have taken some time to re-read all my old poetry on and I've grown a new found confidence over my writing. I can see all these slight changes in my writing and I can physically see how much easier it is to write. I love being able to notice how much I've grown as a writer. And that's saying a lot.

Although, considering the only one who ever reads my poetry is me, I could just be living off some hope that I even have talent. (Yes, I am admitting that no one gives a shit what I write about). I am not afraid to say that I happen to be one of millions of poets who want to have any other name but amateur for their writing. That's life, I guess.

The point of this all is that I am in love with my poetry right now. This confidence will not last long though. Give me a month and I will go back to hating it and not wanting to ever see it again.

No matter what, it holds an important purpose. It helped me survive all the terrifying years of my childhood and the deathly silence my world was. Without it, I would have never been able to move on with my life. Even now, not writing when I'm anxious would be so unnatural to me.

My poetry is my entire mind. It's my being and my soul put into some form. I may never be honest when some one asks me how I am, but when I write something it comes from this raw part of me. I'm not looking for some critic to say its not good enough to be published. Because it's all for my own self healing, and I never intended it to be work for me. There'd be no passion if I did it on a timed limit.