Just a few poems I thought I'd share.
They can get a little...Upsetting. So if anyone likes to keep life G-rated, go elsewhere.


To the darkness of her room, she whispers.
Little lies, half-truths, sweet nothings, secrets.
"I don't think I've ever loved you," she cooes,
stroking each pale bone of her ribs.
With a heavy sigh she picks up a packet of matches,
as if their weight is too much for her frail hands.
"You have always been there for me,
with your never ending love
and your endless punishment," she screams violently.
She lights match after match religiously,
dropping them one by one into her little fish bowl,
smothering the sunset coloured fish with fire and sulfur.
The gun that has been resting in her lap,
greedy for attention like a lazy kitten,
finally wins her attention with soft purrs.
Gently, she picks it up and walks from room to room,
her fingers touching every lacey curtain,
every piece of upholstered furniture,
every crystalline figure resting on the shelves.
With a soft smile, she lifts the gun with two hands,
stroking the trigger gingerly as if to shush it like a crying baby.
"Everything you have ever said means nothing."
She takes aim at her father's head,
resting so peacefully on the pillow,
and looks up at the ceiling until
the whites of her eyes are the only thing visible.
"I don't have to listen to you anymore. I never did."
She fires.
And kills God.


Stomach takes a bite of her sin.
She tastes dirt and grins
with soiled, dirty teeth and gums.
It's the prettiest little thing
anyone's ever seen;
save for the taint in her skin
and the shit in her hair
and the blood from her nose.
She's the one that brings bruises
[back] in style, makes it all the rage.
Then she licks the dirt clean
and leaves them in their shit.
Kisses them up pretty again.
But not like her, with her
[back] in style bruises
and the blood stains on her skirt
and the scars on her face and
the shit in her hair and the
sin her gut
eating her up.

Two more



She paints crosses into the tips of her fingers
with a little blood and a little love;
a prayer to save her soul from rotting.
By dusk her tiny crosses are rusted and worn
and no longer deal with faith but with pus and dirt.
Every psalm and passage of the bible
she smears with her festering sickness and tongue.
God was not kind and thus no longer is she.
The Devil was all grace and calm and couth
and she was too but with barbed wire smiles.
She takes both to bed, with an elaborate show
cuts a little piece of her heart for each--
leaving none for herself--and then with the blood
(that she once used to paint crosses and hope)
writes her name on their foreheads;
smears the name with her lips.
(Kisses the blood and the heart good-bye.)


A thousand years ago
they met, they kissed,
they went their separate ways;
it was all condensed into days
and texts and minutes
(spent sitting in the sun with a friend
in the mud, all skipping stones-or trying-)
She brushes her fingers against his,
he intertwines their hands;
her bare feet dig into rock,
making her bleed and giving her
the excuse to openly cry.
Press their noses together
and let their breath intermingle,
all hot and moist and tasting sugary sweet,
all the sadness bottled up
to be sent down stream
with drift wood and cigarette butts.
(It all catches back up in the end)
"You're the only person I haven't quit talking to."
She takes in a breath.
"I'm glad."
She let's it go.
And starts to cry despite her promise.
A thousand years from now
they meet, they kiss
and this time
they don't go their separate ways

That's a sad poem :(

But it was very well written. I really liked it :)

Good job!

Nice peoms. They are very well writen