People die. That's what they told me. That people are born, then they grow up, and die. I wasn't born. One day I opened my eyes, and I was here. I didn't grow up. I have always been like that. I didn't die. It's been more years than I can count, and I'm still here. People are born, grow up, and die. I don't.

you drive me to solipsism.

though I spend hours thinking

of the curve of your lips

and the soft of your fingers,

you are not my muse.

I could not care less for your hands

or your smile, too preoccupied

with myself

to be awed by your splendor.

it is not your touch that enraptures me,

but the feel of my skin

beneath it.

I'd always heard warnings about cold blue eyes and shiny green orbs. What no one ever told me, was the danger sweet brown eyes could bring. So, I'll be the first one to tell you about this drug. Brown eyes come with rosy lips. Be careful about those lips too. They push venom into your system and leave their breath pumping through your veins. They also come with warm hands. Hands that burn like fire and scorch words on your skin. All of that is topped off with the sweetest voice. If angels and demons sang a lullaby, that would be the sound of brown eyes' voice. And when those eyes join those lips in a smile, the whole world melts around you, like the sun is staring at you and whispering poems. You never forget about those lips, and how they also join those eyes to do something else: to speak in a soft voice such harsh words, and not blink. Not once. When they say goodbye, when they see your tears, the sun doesn't flicker. And then the brown eyed sun sets, leaving a bright red sky. And everyone knows what follows the sunset. Darkness and darkness, an infinite night. Even though now I lay insomniac through the late hours, I never forget those beautiful eyes warming me up.

your feelings and hopes

hidden dreams and empty empty cigarette packs.

your broken words

can move me more than anything tangible nowadays.

i wish i could express it better

too much to ever do justice with words;

yet too little to ever be satisfied with.

so i guess i’ll fight the insomnia once more

with a hungry conscience, and lustful hope.

i used to spend my life waiting for the dusk to kill the day.

but now i’m tired.

i finally realized:

why do i keep running when i can’t remember what i’m running from anymore?

so i stopped here, and i don’t ever want to leave.

for the first time

i didn’t get fucked by ’ol lady luck

:]

—’till sunrise world.

there’s so many reasons why not to write.

cliches of poor, starving authors.

no jobs, no families, just drunken, lonely men

building houses in the woods.

but those statements don’t mean shit.

because they have nothing to do with why you should write.

so why should you?

you should write because the words themselves are screaming at you.

you should write because they are everywhere, under every inch of skin,

throbbing, pulsing,

alive.

and you feel like if you didn’t let them out you would die.

you should write because the poetry sucker punches you out of nowhere

in the middle of a movie

a date

a shower

you should write because you can’t imagine ever not.

don’t force the words

don’t try to be deep

or copy styles from some bestselling author

or to impress people who you don’t even give a shit about.

write for yourself.

write because you can’t help it.

write because the words spill out uncontrollably.

as if you’ve slit your wrists,

and your emotions bleed into in the paper;

into pages now stained with your beauty.

you should write because you hear the nouns

courting the verbs

as the jealous adjectives

mistakenly murder the adverbs

you should write

because it’s the only time

that you force yourself to look in the mirror

for a short while, no matter how afraid you are

you’re forced, compelled; and for once,

you stop lying to yourself.

write because the words just come

appearing at their leisure

driving you mad

gnawing at your soul

write

because if you don’t let the words out

they’ll die

they’ll wither

and you’ll be alone.

surrounded by the corpses of art

wishing for heaven

longing for purgatory

yet trapped in avici.

trapped

in the horrible silence

of

eternity.

i don’t know to be honest.

maybe i’m a coward.

i'm not even sure if that's an identity.

the only time i ever run out of adjectives

is when i struggle to describe who i am.

maybe i just think too much.

about the past

the present

or whether or not i even deserve a future.

about fucking up and down.

about how to even determine

what the fuck constitutes a sin.

about the malaise i feel

when i notice each subtle change

in your mood and demeanor;

wondering if i’m doing it again

instinctively setting fire

to anything that has a chance

of actually making me happy.

or maybe i’m just conceited

for thinking it’s even possible

to read anyone’s feelings

when i can’t even read myself.

for thinking i am even capable

of being the cause of anything.

a prison built with my own two hands

these bars forged in wondering.

these walls mortared with doubt.

these bedsheets woven with insomnia.

i wish that old axiom held true.

this bed i made myself

if only i could sleep in it.

even the bars each whisper their own inquiries

a cacophony of curiosity

fuckfuckfuck i'm fucking drowning

in the sea of thoughts running through my head.

as the apathy slowly fills my lungs.

does it even matter?

should i even care?

about fear

about love

about the person

i wish i actually was

about…

fuck.

about racing thoughts

and rambling words

about you and me

about doubting

if it’s even possible

for someone as fucked as me

draping smiles over guilt

drowning emotions in cigarette smoke

to fucking exist

on the same pale, blue dot

as you do.

so you ask

what's my cultural identity?

human.

Looking for a helping hand, but always figured I missed them. 

Ink inside of this syringe, it's my deliverance system.

____

take a break and open up to find, don't say that you won't have the time.

Afraid of straying off a line, created by your state of mind. 

____

I expand a little more each day, I can't afford to stand and wait. 

I planned and I'll be damned if I'm the kind of man that can't embrace. 

____

You've heard that home is where the heart is, you're alone because you're heartless. 

Casting stones to hit the hardest, you're the farthest thing from smartest.

____

Try to be the best you can, while never judging what others choose.

Shaming humans just for fun, then putting some onto pedestals. 

____

It's a sick cycle, this fight'll, rip vital organs out.

Rip tides and zip ties help disguise when demons shout. 

____

Why is it that, we're bias to facts, that pry us to crack, comply or react.

We lie to ourselves and then we lie on our backs, you may be mad that it's true and yes im sad that it's fact. 

____

I just want someone to love me

For the unlovely that I am

I just want you to see past my skin

And into my core

To feel the way my heart beats

When it is content

Or when I crave more

I want you to know my pattern of breathing

And to see my eyes light up

I want someone to love me

While I'm a little less than enough

I may never measure up

I will never be perfect

But I promise to give you all my love

I promise you it is worth it

I just want to be loved

For the unlovely that I am

I just want someone to love

While I still can

Come and hold my hand

We can unravel this world together

We can make a plan

Or we can just do whatever forever

I am the unlovely

But I still want to be loved

And held

And cared about

I am the unlovely

But maybe you could find a way to love me...

-AshleyAnne

Quit wit and slick tongue

Flight swift of young one

Dream sweet all undone

Rain sleet and naked

Slipped up fell to pray

Lip cut washed away

Make-up guise blue-gray

Swept up broken glass