All I wanted was for you to know me through each and every gasping line of this twisted poetry.
I laid my words out in muscle, skin, and bone. Despite the vivid, ethereal creation; I end up alone.
So much for second chances.
I pick up my suitcase full of words and go. I'm all about what I dream and you are all about what you know.
The words sit sickly limp in front of me on the page. They know I am far from you and they feel the distance like a cage.
They burn and breath and stretch impatiently. They stare at the cieling and they comfort me.
The words bleed from my pen at an alarming rate. As if the word combinations were dangerously fate.
I twist and turn and slope my ys. Like why is it considered shameful to cry? Why does the sun no longer shine?
I stay so empty. I've taken all these words and thrown them sloppily on the page in drunken slurs.
All these questions aside. I sit and I write. You always read my poetry but you never got to know me.
I can't control where my life is going and I know that it seems like I'm always upset. These fears bubble within me like an outright threat.
I asked and you lied, your tongue is so creative. Yet in all of these voices yours is native. I'm going down, it can't be debated.
These words are all I have to show. These broken messages for you are all that I know.
