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.

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 remember being at your side when you were breaking

doing everything that I could to keep your heart from aching.

I would have spent every day and every night telling you what you meant to me

making sure that you understood just how amazing I thought that you could be.

But when it came time for my walls to crumble

you left me in the dark to grope and stumble

somehow nowhere in sight, as I fell down into shambles

but still being there to drive the knife in by the handle.

Even now, I would still be there to hold your hand in the dark

when I know I mean nothing to you, and I’m the only one breaking my own heart

so, if you can’t bring yourself to bother with me too

then I don’t want to be the only one that gives a damn about you,