Tall, Dark, and Emotionally Unstable.

When people say I’m good with words

I don’t know if I should believe it

I’ve written hundreds of poems

Many a short story, notes, letters

Birthday wishes, postcards

And none of them have ever

Ever, been satisfactory in my head

At times I want to burn the roughest pages

Rewrite it all with ink instead of blood

Freshly poured from wounds that won’t heal

Or from places hidden in my heart

Maybe that’s why I don’t enjoy them

Everything about it is too familiar

It stings and makes me ball my hands into fists

Leaving calluses on the palms

I viciously try to believe that I know what to say

But sometimes I really have no clue

I have nothing but a blank mind

A blank stare, and a bunch of bullshit to spare.

Originally posted by classyobineke