I still dream about loving you.
of writing about how
your eyes turn into
boundless galaxies I want to paint
with my antique watercolors.
about how your words
linger in the air,
each syllable
dance around the room.
how your voice
is an alluring lullaby
I never want to stop playing.

but it does.

I’m never close enough
to paint your eyes with their distinct blush,
your lullaby is more like a harmony,
but I’ll never have enough
to compose the melody.

smile and move on

apathetic faces
smirking down upon mine.
the smiles pulling on the one thread
that’s keeping me together.
eating up my sadness like
a cake they cant get enough of.
the florescent lights
drowning out the dull sparkle
I have left in my eyes.
overpowering the voice I have.

why can’t they see
that what they’re trying to
do to help me,
is hurting me instead?

Depression is..

depression is
laying in a dark room,
with your eyes wide open
to obsorb the darkness.
it is tired expressions
and desperatly hoping someone
doesnt notice.

depression is not
someone should find attracticve.
no one should sip the word through a straw
like it is a sweet meloncholy milkshake.

depression is a serious medical condition.
not a fashion statement,
and definitely not a turn on.


Originally posted on Abandons:

Leave me to melt
into the smoke that is residing in my lungs, this last
cigarette has your name on it and I’m killing myself
with the warm inhale of your breath.

Let the sky
be the only thing that tells me the truth of my lost pasts,
the constellations wrote my life in a straight line that will
someday end.

Drink me away
until my body is numb and I won’t feel the palms of your
callused hand spill over my thighs. Wait for my mind to be
as toxic as your lips.

Give me another drink
to remind me of the night the tequila stole me away before
any man could, and kiss me to search for the taste buds on
my tongue – not all are sweet.

Feel my ribs
that are inside a body that feels like a jail cell with my number
being the amount…

View original 47 more words

She is November



Originally posted on Abandons:

She is November, 

her hair a soft auburn of 

colors that frame her face
Van Gogh had created her,
 glides across landscapes and tries

to paint her heart with warm colors. 

She is November, 

in her footsteps that will soon

be covered with fallen leaves and

forgotten in a matter of time,
her eyes look like the sky on a

crisp, starry night.

She is November, 

constantly being looked over

and walked over, as people await

and excite over her best friend, December. 

So she sighs, and she falls, quietly onto

the pavement of her childhood road,

she was dying, but god,

she was beautiful.

View original

scraped knees and broken bones

they say that pain
is only in your mind.
when my feet hurt
from wondering through life,
tip-toeing on broken glass,
my mother tells me to
pinch my arm,
it will distract me from
the blood stain that my foot left.

when I was stabbed in the back,
the knife lunged me forward,
breaking me down to hands and knees.

when I first skinned my knee
running around the playground,
my teacher told me to be more careful.
my mothers words reflected in hers.

I pinched my arm.

I broke my arm when I was little.
my mother was terrified,
but I was just staring at my arm,
the blood om my wrist,
the bone escaping my skin.

I pinched my thigh.

when the pinching wasnt enough,
I turned to the mental aspect of pain.
if I diatract my brain,
my aching heart will go away.

I finished a bottle of liquor.

but when that wasnt enough,
I flashed to the day I broke my arm.
I was so fasinated with the blood.

I slit my wrist.