“Speak to me again, so I’m writing another poem i’ll never send.”

These words crash over and threaten to destroy me. I cannot find the stars so far beneath these waves of insecurity and mistrust, their light has seemed to vanish.

Have I been buried alive by chronic pain? I can taste the dirt as they put me in the earth, thick on my lips like the honey that drips down my lips.

Be proud of a body that bares the burden of being buried only to bloom.

I’d rather suffer in silence than be subjected to deafening stares. I feel like I’m in an abusive relationship with my body, no one can see the bruises.

Don’t you know that shedding your pain only makes it reverberate.

On my worst days my brain tries to trick me into wishing i stayed. Its really trying to convince me that i didn’t deserve to survive.

I’m actually great at being alone. It was being abandoned that was hard.

Am i meant to untangle the knots in my own muscles? Do they think its as simple as a few tangles in my own hair?

If we found out tomorrow that oxygen was poisonous I would try to spend forever in your exhales.

I want to find my soul rather than lose it.

There are days I want to pretend you are just a call away.

I can scream into every passing storm cloud, but that will not bring you back. I can yell at god as i sob over crinkled pictures, but all i can grasp are memories.

When you are starved for a moment of relief, you’ll eat their poison by the mouth full, no questions until the digestion leads to new problems.

I knew i was losing you, But when you tossed me into the mail box it finally hit me- I was losing me.

The burns didn’t hurt this badly when we were on fire.

I know I could be a petty queen, I could release all the receipts the way you treated me. But honey I’m happier living in peace than cruelty.

If a poem hasn’t ripped apart your soul; you haven’t experienced poetry.

I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of beauty.

I read poetry to save time.

If I had my life to live over again, I would have made a rule to read some poetry and listen to some music at least once every week.

All religion, my friend, is simply evolved out of fraud, fear, greed, imagination, and poetry.

With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion.

Silence is the garden of thought.

I intend to put up with nothing that I can put down.