It’s not sad music,
or rose petals in the tub.
It’s not black and white pictures of trains.
It’s not being held tight while you cry.
It’s not being surrounded by love in a hospital bed.
It’s not standing on a bridge, with people begging you to come down.
It’s not vodka and cigarettes.
It’s not sleeping pills and cozy blankets.
It’s not romantic.
It’s not lovely.
It’s not a rainy day.
It’s standing with a belt around your neck wondering how quietly you can choke, wondering if you could do it without waking anyone.
It’s walking over every bridge wondering if it could be a
The secrets that you keep, Could bring someone to tears. You’re only but a child, Too far beyond your years.
Your fears are ressuected, By the hour, by the day. Every dream and every promise, Simply seem to fall away.
I can teach you how to sing, With the voices in your head. I can teach you how yo laugh, When you’d rather just be dead.
I can show you how to dance, Though you’re paralyzed by fears. I’ll show you you can hear the music, With more then just your ears.
And darling, if you’re bleeding, We can learn to live without. I&
Tis the season,
of rosie noses,
of love letters etched in ice,
of goodness and cheer in the air for all those with family and lovers.
Tis the season,
of warm baths alone,
because tears don’t make a difference in the shower.
Tis the season,
of death to all those left on the streets in the cripplingly chilled air.
Tis the season
for unreturning soldiers,
and their grieving families.
Tis the season,
of reminders that another year of sadness has come and gone,
and another will come and go.
Tis the season.
Try not to breathe by PaintingOverScars, literature
Literature
Try not to breathe
Birds chirp, rain falls, children laugh, I hear the regular sounds of life. Ignorance is bliss. What they all don’t know will never bring their spirits down, will never ache their heart, will never make the world stop in its tracks. As I lay on the floor and suffer, the earth keeps spinning, the children keep laughing, the birds keep chirping, my silent cry will be heard by none but God, and even He ignores. My arms are beautifully laced with red reminders of the past, present, and future. Some have healed, some have scarred, but the pain will always be there. And I know that in the few times I have been free of my burdens, there was so
It’s not sad music,
or rose petals in the tub.
It’s not black and white pictures of trains.
It’s not being held tight while you cry.
It’s not being surrounded by love in a hospital bed.
It’s not standing on a bridge, with people begging you to come down.
It’s not vodka and cigarettes.
It’s not sleeping pills and cozy blankets.
It’s not romantic.
It’s not lovely.
It’s not a rainy day.
It’s standing with a belt around your neck wondering how quietly you can choke, wondering if you could do it without waking anyone.
It’s walking over every bridge wondering if it could be a
The secrets that you keep, Could bring someone to tears. You’re only but a child, Too far beyond your years.
Your fears are ressuected, By the hour, by the day. Every dream and every promise, Simply seem to fall away.
I can teach you how to sing, With the voices in your head. I can teach you how yo laugh, When you’d rather just be dead.
I can show you how to dance, Though you’re paralyzed by fears. I’ll show you you can hear the music, With more then just your ears.
And darling, if you’re bleeding, We can learn to live without. I&
Tis the season,
of rosie noses,
of love letters etched in ice,
of goodness and cheer in the air for all those with family and lovers.
Tis the season,
of warm baths alone,
because tears don’t make a difference in the shower.
Tis the season,
of death to all those left on the streets in the cripplingly chilled air.
Tis the season
for unreturning soldiers,
and their grieving families.
Tis the season,
of reminders that another year of sadness has come and gone,
and another will come and go.
Tis the season.
Try not to breathe by PaintingOverScars, literature
Literature
Try not to breathe
Birds chirp, rain falls, children laugh, I hear the regular sounds of life. Ignorance is bliss. What they all don’t know will never bring their spirits down, will never ache their heart, will never make the world stop in its tracks. As I lay on the floor and suffer, the earth keeps spinning, the children keep laughing, the birds keep chirping, my silent cry will be heard by none but God, and even He ignores. My arms are beautifully laced with red reminders of the past, present, and future. Some have healed, some have scarred, but the pain will always be there. And I know that in the few times I have been free of my burdens, there was so
And I can hear them knocking
but I'm hiding under the covers,
their voices are always so loud
like dropping a glass bowl on the cold tile floor
and I'm tired of cutting myself on their words,
of walking barefoot over their see-through stories
and my ears just need some rest.
I ignore texts for hours
and the guilt eats at my fingers,
taps away at my conscious
but I just want to be left alone.
I hear the screaming of my phone
and it's like a lion out for my blood,
my chest constricts, locking in my voice
and I stare at my numb hands
as my ringtone finally comes to a stop.
"...leave a message at the tone."
but it doesn't matter anyway,
not li
i.
She's the loose thread at the hem of your sweater
you snap off without a second thought
and she's running out of time.
I see her at the park sometimes
sitting on a bench drenched in the rain
she said she likes the blinding lightning
and the way the thunder rattles her ribcage
she said it makes her feel alive
but her hands were always so cold
ii.
Her sad candle eyes
are reflecting the sun again today,
I see her smile
and watch the light ripple over waves
I should've seen the blue creeping up her fingers
iii.
She was a comet girl, you know
they always burn brightest
right before they flare out
I bought her a sapphire ring to match her eyes
“Learning to let go.
Of life.
Of promises that never came to be.
Letting go of nights waiting in the driveway, 
waiting for a call,
waiting for never to come.
Learning to let go of childhood like balloons disappearing in the distance.”