An odd sort of Poetry · vice and all her ailments

broken faces

I carry all of it with me:

the blood is too thick to bleed out

and the air is too thin to breathe in.

the numbers imbed themselves into my skull

and the cries echo through my mind


the broken faces I knew plastered themselves

onto mine,

so all I am is a collage of horror,

an unreadable book

of a past me

that I can never forget.

god knows I try

An odd sort of Poetry · death is a good friend · vice and all her ailments

hell is real

they talked for hours on whether or not hell was real.
and I was quiet.
I was quiet because I knew that it was.

I’ve been there often.
seen the flames
through the blinding darkness
and felt my bones
turn to ice
as everything else melted away.

I’ve seen hell.
seen the emptiness of the painted halls
and the sterile smoke
in every breath.

I’ve heard hell.
heard the desperate cries
of lost souls
that I knew
and wondered whether or not
anyone could hear

they sit there
and continue to wonder if hell exists,
but they’re staring right at it,
straight into my damn eyes.
– I’ve been there and when I came home
little devils made a house in my mind.

An odd sort of Poetry · nature is important · vice and all her ailments

taste the sun


We all want to taste the sun
And kiss the stars
-until we actually do-
Once we do
We find out the truth of it all

The sun doesn’t taste too sweet.
It burnt my tongue and
Dissolved my taste buds.
Now nothing tastes too sweet

And the stars
We’ll I’ve kissed them.
They bit my lip and left me bruised,
Wishing I would have
Kept my distance
The stars are no longer beautiful to me

Yet still
I want to taste the sun
And kiss the stars
-because after awhile
I forget how bad they hurt me-

The vicious cycle never ends
And all the vicious people
Never learn.

An odd sort of Poetry · death is a good friend

Death to help me


I see Death

and I hear Death

I know Death.

we chat often,

and it seems we enjoy each other’s company

a bit too much.

it is a constant company

when everything else is not

when everyone else leaves.

sometimes Death takes them,

but I don’t hold it against him.

he’s never taken me.

he only picks and chooses

little pieces of my soul;

they wither up and die.

but not to worry,

Death is always here, by my side,

to help me

dig their graves.

An odd sort of Poetry · vice and all her ailments

not foolish enough

She told me that I should stop
As she wrote me another prescription
Another pill on top of
All the other
– No worries, she has a degree-

I told her that
I would work on it,
But I think we both knew that was a lie.

What does it matter if it’s legal
Or not?
From your pen or mine?
What does it matter,
The goal is the same

I only take what I need
I always only take what I need
But it is never enough
I always need more
Because I need too much to begin with.

I’m not foolish enough to see past my own faults,
But I’m not foolish enough to stop myself either.