Once I get the words onto the page,
No matter how messy they may be,
I become clean and light as air.
Like someone taking a plastic scoop,
Meant for pumpkins on Halloween
To my insides.
My guts are left out to dry over night,
And they stain each page
With a story that I once held
In my stomach.
I’m scratching at the surface of
But my fingernails have been torn off,
And all that’s left
Is this mangled bloodly mess.
If you look too deep,
You find nothing.
Before I left,
I went to the sea.
And watched the grey waves
As they churned with anger.
It was and always will be,
A bitter goodbye.
People aren’t art,
To be hung on walls.
They are flesh and bone,
And they are almost never
The way you picture them
In your head.
The world plays its cruel jokes on us
Each morning we gather the nerve