Spined Teeth

I am an empty shell, carry me to the grounds.                                                                                                                                 I am the shelf people place books onto                                                                                                                                       but not read as one, boxed with memories, dogeared with saliva.

Law students would be jealous of my own rules,                                                                                                                         washing onto the shores of the beached houses,                                                                                                                 wandering around like a smile looking for it’s lost teeth

Found, blind sided by my own dose of love,                                                                                                                             golden flowers wildly appearing next to the graves my mind                                                                                                           has so wonderfully dug themselves into                                                                                                                         underneath the old pollinated oaks

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Settle Layers

Quietly, creeping it
comes unto my skin
and crawls deeply

Settling, it grabs a hold
of my eyes and chokes
them as they shed their layers

Quickly, overwhelming it
inhaled my very being
swallowing as it moves consuming

Overwhelming, hardly felt it
until suddenly the feeling
was then out of nowhere, felt

Plummeting Breaths

I look for others to make promises for me
Ones I wish I could keep, so far away
From my own mind’s keepsakes and searching for sanity
It’s all I do, holding on to see and waiting
For something, any reason
Clarification as to why it’s harder to let go than to look up at the stars and find peace among the hollow stars that once were filled with gleaming shimmer

I look to others to breathe for me
Breaths that once came easy, now are tainted by the darkest attempts at finding fate
Shallow and fast strokes as my lungs move in and out, shielding what’s left of my pumping bloodened heart

Here, still here or there, everywhere I am at once and nowhere together with the personas I’ve created to sharpen the blades that I stabbed into my own back, punishing the gold rays that beamed from my childhood self with silver thrashes

Dysphoria at its finest.

You’re just sitting there glancing, looking through the old and the new and all of a sudden you can feel it.

Feel that feeling where your eyes are becoming flooded and you’re trying your best to figure out why and what’s causing the liquid to start surfacing.

You try to erase who you were because out of nowhere, you don’t even know who you are today or who you will be, but regardless, your shirt still feels tight.

You look down and it’s as though quicksand had started to absorb certain parts of you and your legs no longer can stand the test of your own strength.

Letting go of your muscles, your tears finally start falling and you see other people who appear to be struggling in similar ways, but that makes you feel worse.

Then, comparing yourself again, you look at your own self and you can’t seem to find anything worth holding on to, slipping.

Finally, you give up trying to fight, shake the weight that has just suddenly punched you with most of it’s wrath and just attempt to distract yourself until the next time.

You know you’ll make it through, but with each and every passing moment, it gets slightly harder.

Therepuetic Awakening

I’m feeling some type, sort of way

Regarding the embers that burst around us, or was it all in my head darling?

I hear things that I only want you to know

Embracing what I’ve ever told you, maybe you’ll still hold onto the way I think

There’s fires that have replaced the settle sparks

Medicated is what you suggested as some type of therapy, be my therapist

Your words are and always will be spilt with more organization than my very own

Broken are we together, but fixed we won’t be apart

One might read this and think we are lovers, just friends though, I guess

Shaken is the voice that escapes my esophagus, you’re still hear listening

While my hands are drenched with yesterday’s troubles, I’m still breathing

Dead is what I wanted, thought I needed, but you read my like a book and believe otherwise

Walking around I am, with nothing but solidarity, I’m still here and so are you

Writings of a not-so-called writer.

Can you call yourself a writer if you aren’t published and don’t write various different types and forms of writing?

Can you call yourself a writer if you don’t even write things often?

I just say I write instead of calling myself a writer, unless I’m using hashtags as writers because it helps my poetry navigate the internet better.

It’s amazing how you can be so into writing for a while, almost anything and everything inspires you to write. It could be something as simple as a little speck of dust.

The dust, who knows what exactly that dot is speckled with, how long ago it drifted from out of nowhere.

Or something that can be written about a million times in a million different ways such as a person.

They sat there, all they did was sit there and I was taken aback. only my mind knew what to say while my mouth couldn’t vocalize those thoughts.

Sometimes, it doesn’t really take something I’ve seen before or something I’ve heard or said before to spark the desire, the yearning to jot down words in the form of poetry, rhyming or not.

I just turn on music, usually the old same songs I listen to on repeat or I dip into the waters of unfamiliar sounds to my ears and I just start writing.

I used to write about what I felt falling in love would feel like. Then I started writing about heart break, insanity and I even wrote some pieces while drinking alcohol. I’d often find myself re-reading what I’ve written the previous night in the wee hours of the night/morning and I found that my mind was all over the place, as it always seems to be, but it was more obvious in what was on the programs I type in on my laptop, and spilled onto paper.

I go through periods of time where I don’t even pick up a pencil or a pen and then I meet someone who inspires me, who is there and who I’m intrigued by. Whether it be someone I’m into or a person I met waiting at the bus stop on a rainy or snowy day.

Then I start getting back into the scene. Barely eating, staying up later, talking with that one person and not doing much other than writing about them or something they’ve said or I’ve just simply thought about them.

Writing, I’d have to say can be hard, but is one of my biggest releases. Escapes.