crazyness

atelophobia

I hate all poets write poetry about suicide I hate that we all write poetry about attempted bullets we wanted in our brains to end all this pain I hate that we all joke about the drug overdoses and pills we want to take I hate that we romanticized slit wrists and 2 am nights to the 11 year old who follow us on tumblr I hate that the only way I learned to live myself and tolerate my scars is through writing poetry about their fucking beauty I guess I’m trying to say I’m sorry Because my poetry is laced with lies you’ll never be able to find Or maybe it’s filled with truth I keep trying ignore and you can’t recognize Because the only way I’ve been able to handle my sadness is to write it out in noteboooks that I don’t have the fucking courage to burn And I guess I’m trying to say that maybe it’s not right The way most of us say we’d rather die But maybe writing it out helps stop the pain Maybe the only way we think we’re going to be able to get through another night is to spell out our pain so maybe someone else knows what it’s like I guess I’m trying to say… I’m sorry.