Suicide Sunday

Sunday always feels like the last day of the week

even though it’s the first

the predeccesor of what is to come as you carry on

through all of the days that you don’t want to live

working your way back to Friday

just so you can fall back into bed as you wait for Saturday

but Saturday is over so quickly

that it almost feels like Sunday.

Retake What Is Yours, Forget What Is Not

I thought for years

that If I hurt myself

then no one else could;

that I would be the only one

in control.

I was convinced

that I could use sharp pain

and dull blades

to lighten the mood

and carve out a version of myself

that the world couldn’t touch.

I was wrong.

being in control

is not yielding to your vices

it is refusing them

and knowing how

to climb back down

from that precipice

all on your own.

I’ve learned since then

that taking your own life

can not only be a giving away

of who you have become

but rather a reclaiming

of who you once were.

Have You Tried Turning It Off And Then Back On Again?

I have been hard wired
to crave neglect

Programmed to apologize
when I’m being abused

From the first girl
that took the time to learn my name

To the last boy
that told me he loved it

All I’ve known
is dejection

And when I’m finally free of it
longing starts

It has me running back
to the same dull pain

I’ve been forced to love.

Give It You’re Best But Be Prepared For Me To Give It Mine

You can cut and bruise an artist as many times as you want to but you won’t be able to make them bleed. Instead, they will take that pain that you made them feel and make something beautiful to give back to the world; something you can’t touch.

If you make them cry, don’t begin to think that you have taken a victory because those tears you traced down the sides of their face will only spill onto paper and canvas as they strip you of every thin veil you use to cover who you really are.

When you happen to be the subject of someone’s art it either means that you did something so amazing as to inspire there thoughts and effort or, it means that you did something so viscerally atrocious they felt the need to warn the world about you.

Some artists have other people just like you to hurt them, and some have to hurt themselves; however, they’ll decide how. Either way, there is pain interwoven into the bindings of art, music, and literature; a melancholic beauty that can make pages turn all on their own.

If you think that you’ve taken everything from them and that they have given up you are wrong. Only the world can take the life of an artist…and it always does.

If you enjoyed this, even if you didn’t, please like or leave a comment and let me know what you think. Tell me what I did well or what I could do better, I would love to know what you thought about it and any kind of support helps.

On Second Thought

I used to think that blue eyes were beautiful

as everyone does

but I’ve been noticing lately an apathy behind them

whether it’s hidden well or it isn’t.

I used to think, too, it was only a single pair of blue eyes

that bore resemblance to that revile that I loved so much

but I’m getting better at looking past vibrant irises

and into a narcissistic stoicism.

Don’t get me wrong,

I still think that they’re beautiful,

a vivid and dispassionate warning that there is pain ahead,

and now that I’ve come to understand what lies behind them

I love them even more.

I Don’t Usually Say What I Mean

I told you I needed space

but what I really needed was to wake up

to open my eyes and hear you tell me

that it was all just a dream.

I told you that I wanted to move on

but what I really wanted was to turn back time

to go back to before we’d both made our mistakes

and to when a future with you looked a little brighter.

I told you that I couldn’t work so hard anymore

but what I really wanted to do was ask you for a chance

to work even harder than I had before

to make it right again.