musickidxx

My sunken, sullen skin, really brings out the decay in my eyes. The sad, sad, shadows illuminate the despair my soul cannot keep incognito anymore. Cigarettes really tend to the bone splints that bulge over to-tightly-wrapped Skin. My bed has molded to my curves already for all the bad times in my life, (and I've had plenty) I seem to have lost the will to get ready But feel better, you say. As if this disease could be hummed and nursed away by any over-the-counter drug, or any apparatuses found in a First-Aid kit. As if a smile is something that can be medicated to appear, (and it can.) As if a grin is something more than syntheti

Plumes of Ghost is How I remember You The sweet smell of Spring Grew flowers in my lungs, and That is what we used to bury You.

We all have these strings inside us, That play wonderful melodies They hold us together and keep us from falling apart But there comes a time when the strings Wear thin from the notes of the melodies that they played for too long They break. They get tangled and they Fray. The knots get bigger and, They only cause more pain. The real problem is We were taught at an early age that we were never meant to be broken, And the world is a beautiful place and nothing hurts, But later we learn that pain does exist and, Our hearts aren’t indestructible. We never learned how to deal with the pain Of the strings breaking We never knew how

Ask me to find a happy memory, It's harder than it seems, Cause the only happiness I know, Is strictly found in dreams. And I dissect my childhood, I try to find a smile, Or something to deny this insanity, At least for a while. But nothing brings my insanity to justice, And all I know, Is my heart has forever been, A cold blanket of snow. Harder than ice; not yet willing to thaw, It weighs down my chest, It's hard to breathe when, Your heart is at loss for rest. Sometimes the ice turns to glass, And thats when it breaks, And all the glass shards slice me, As a reminder of mistakes. Wounds mark my chest; hallow and cold, Bleeding; throbb

            I wish you were here. Somehow, the days never seem quite as bright, nor the colors of the leaves as vibrant and no longer do they float ever so gracefully through the air, they just sink like anchors thrown into the ocean trying to bestill a ship. No longer does the sound of a yellow Ford mustang excite me, because I know you aren’t the one driving it; you will never pick me up from school; besides, you totaled it anyway. The winter always seems to get colder each year; I can never tell if it’s me or just the season. It’s as if my heart and Jack Frost are in a war, seeing who can freeze me first. I guess I didn&r

          It has been said that time heals all wounds, and I do not agree, because hands on a clock cannot cradle a broken bone or heal bleeding skin, and the numbers do not make for very good bandages. Time does not exist. The seasons do not show sympathy for your bruised body, and although the 3AM moonlight might know all of your secrets, it cannot repress them for you. Time does not exist, only clocks do, and they don’t make for very good doctors or therapists, they move way to fast, even after we beg them to slow; for the sake of the memories and whats left of sanity.         Time does not heal wounds. Our minds, protecting the mem