I’m not Complicated, I Just have Scars.


I look at you wondering

if you don’t give a shit

than why do you read

Why do you listen

to the music my words make?

The problem is my body

is internally infected

bloody, oozing with puss.

For some strange reason

you find beauty in the meanless words

that come out of my foul mouth.

You long to skim

through a notebook noone sees.

You don’t  understand things about me

because there are things you don’t know.

but If you knew them

you would say

“you’ll get over it”

and leave it at that.

You would fail to reconize

that a healing heart takes time.

You fail to grasp the fact that

you don’t know grief

until you expereince it

everyday.

So I write that way I do

because the blood

that pours out of my fingers tips

comes from soul

and no other place but.

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