Sharpened Rose

I need to write, because spilling from the mouth isn’t the easiest even if my demons are being heard
That’s the thing about them, they make me think I deserve the worst, they make me make others scream

I let myself love them before I loved anything after having things tear me apart bone by bone

I’m not the best lover because I live for sporadic things
They are what I know best, I’m most creative when my head is scattered and my heart a mess

I’ve had pain whipped into my side so early that it was disguised as rose when I was anything but
They chopped it down to a bad attention span and a lack of knowledge

I’m sorry I’m difficult, but hear me out yeah? I crave what you need too, but I’m better at giving the opposite because I believe that I’m nothing more than rotting energy and spilt sunspots

But, I try to be here even when my body is drifting to sea in a metaphorical sense, even though my brain blanks out at the times I’m needed

You say I don’t know your demons and maybe that being true, I’m not scared of that, I’m scared that I feel too little, I’ve forced things to happen because I know I’ve been better than this, I’m better than letting things to be overflown

Stay or go, but know I have a difficult time being honest and not playing games, I’m better at writing.

The bad thing about liking a writer is they’re dangerous. They’re so in their heads that the only way you can get the truth is through their writing, sometimes. Sometimes, maybe just maybe, they’ll plant kisses of soft healthy poison and you won’t have to read what’s written

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