We say that art is beautiful but

Is it

Always pretty?

We say that art is feeling but

Is it

Not also thought?

Art is choice, expression through

Choice.

Choice is freedom.

Freedom is burdensome.

Logic dictates,

Art must be a burden,

But,

It is

Our human right

To carry.

My body's a weapon,

Sharpened to the very core.

With a tongue like a razor

And words like a sword,

My mouth's a double-edged blade.

My hurt holds hands with the pain

And my heart feels constrained,

Beneath the weight of that power.

My fingers feel strong and my mind weak

While I step over friends and enemies.

Sometimes I can't control who I've become,

Causing me to add distance.

Once the double-edged blade strikes again,

It was then I knew.

My body will be my own end.

White feathers dance

in your image,

fluttering through this cold winter.

Briefly, I catch a hint,

a hint of grapefruit,

and I long again for that aroma.

Your smile fills

The creases of my mind today.

Your laugh,

it reverberates in my rib cage,

giving my heart fuel for beating.

I will be

more like you,

if that's where you can stay.

Little bits in me,

in all who knew you,

keeping you awake in our dreams.

Walk with me

In the Valley of Death

Where broken hearts moan

Under a blackened sky

Our charcoal memories

Will turn to dust

As we trip on the headstones

Of youthful demise