Poetry
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Someone said to me, It is so bad for your heart But good for your art
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She was chasing a high to feel alive Because all she felt was dead inside There was no more left for her to give There was no more blood for her to bleed. She promised that there was no method to her insanity. There were no meds, no drugs, no cures to fulfill her needs.
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A man said to me Memory stuff will haunt you I said, will it cease?
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Man drives me crazy With his thoughtful way with words Nothing left to say
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Imperfect (written October 20th, 2015) For as long as I can remember, I have chased the idea of perfection. I don’t know from where this idea came. It’s been a part of me for so long that I no longer know what I am chasing. It’s become a phantom that I cannot see. I know
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Covered in black ink My pen bleeds for me tonight There is nothing left
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I would wait for you Except you will always be Unattainable
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Someone said to me Paper is your violin A pen is your bow
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I was named after the strongest women that my father knew. Two forces worked their way through my veins. Two storms that could never be quieted. The ghost of one began to slowly break through my skin. I had been marked. There is no way to shake the weight of the dead from my skin.
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Dancing to the beat of my own drum. Singing the words to songs never written down. I long for the day that the world stops spinning out of control. There is no end to this madness. Only a girl and the songs inside her bones. Hoping one day that they’d break so that those songs
Trapped In The Margins 