Ceramic Dreams

My skin is porcelain, ceramic dreams draped in white that find themselves hanging from my back weighing in on my spine and a pool of downward spiraling self-confidence glued under my eyes/dark circles personified.

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Stand By The Soda Machine

Darling we have been killing brain cells for way too long, blowing clouds of feelings unfiltered and so raw yet we still find ourselves blinded by the concept of better days and a reality in which we are less likely to end up burning out like cigarettes or worse we face the inevitable completely sober.

World Mental Health Day/ A Poem

We’re holding on as tightly as we can.
Fingers gripping on to feeble articles of meaning,
Trying to ground ourselves within this mess of this spinning globe we call The Earth.

FourFiveSeconds

And so she said you’re the catalyst of my depression the holy place in my mind where God was supposed to be found started to flow on sinful desires you crafted in me.

I Still Dream

I used to fill my bedroom up with vinyls carrying hope, voices that would bounce off the lavender walls and against the posters of my favorite tv shows.
Polaroids glued to the mirror on the verge of falling off this is how I used to see yesterday. 

Stepping Stones

He liked to chew bubblegum, kept it underneath his tongue, he said it made him feel grounded. More in control. Scrunched up poetry in messy handwriting strewn across pages in white he would hold them in his palm before it melted into a fist and it was almost like the words were written to be washed away.

Eighteen Years Old (There’s Still A Lot I Don’t Know)

I’m eighteen years old and there are things that I feel like I know more than anyone ever could, like how much the color yellow infuriates me and how I can never get tired of my mother’s voice, my friends are the closest I’ve ever had to a home and my father’s temper is almost as understandable as the Rubik’s Cube on my bedroom floor that I never could learn to solve.