Tenderly, Shoulders curved, neck arched Over the glistening surface of a toilet bowl Like a lily of the valley, Your silent blossom, Silent wilting. Where are the others? You suppose it's not the season; Something must be wrong with you.

Nectar spills from your irises. He takes his pick, Tells you how sweet you are. It soaks in; For a moment he softens.

He is in love With your body. The bruises on your petals say otherwise but surely He did not mean it. You want only to be wanted so Go, trim your thorns, Keep your body dainty for his Man-hands.

Your mother said We would not like your brittle leaves, So you learnt succulence, Sweetness and mouldability. If your father were there, He would not have corrected her. After all, it was only from your birth That she became undesirable.

When you look at your boy, Be reminded that he is not yours So far as you are his. That boy is a product Of a factory that churns out combat boots Like the only thing worth selling And you crumble beneath them, Pressed into the earth.

Won't you lift your head up From the bathroom tiles? Won't you keep your guts this time? Realise his glow is machine-fuelled And grow towards something brighter?

Go, face the sunlight. Cling to my walls if you need it. I say this as a friend and Not as a man: You are not his to uproot.

(Started with the prompt in mind but did slightly deviate from the 'tragic' message in the end)

It's hard to go unnoticed when you're hanging upside down, The suited girl, the boy trapped in his mother's wedding gown, The kid obsessed with numbers and the walking sad, sad song, The ones in ear defenders who could hear you all along.

The girl without an appetite, the boy without a voice, The trembling hands and rubber bands that snap without a choice, The boy who don't speak English, in the end, he understand That they are never welcome, they not born upon this land.

The teenage workaholics scared to death that they might fail, The ones who gave up trying, falling far below the scale, Too much or not enough, each one an outcast in the end; You used to be like us, until you learnt how to pretend.

But how could we fit in when we're all twisted inside out? Pick kids apart like vultures in a desert, in this drought, Go home, scream at your mother when she asks you where you've been, Then bleach out all your colours for a life inside a screen.

And, if it's not enough, all of the acid that you've downed, Go find those sick pariahs; warp them all the right way round. Now, surely, you're our saviour; we can all be normal, too! But normal isn't natural, not unless it's really you.

I hope you find your colours and compassion and your light, I hope that you stop hiding and start putting up a fight. If ever you go looking for a different type of sight, I hope you know I'll be here and I'll show you, we're alright.

You've gotten sloppy; Your poems don't read like they used to. Hand sanitiser, drying up. What use have you for being clean? Or maybe you should down it.

Tell me why You only write when your lungs are Asbestos and dynamite. So you can spill onto a screen Your godless coughing, and Un-literary prowess? Whispered screams And puppy eyes, You're barking mad.

When did you forget what poetry is? Why have your words gone Cold and meaningless?

Why has your body?

You wish you knew how to write about beauty, Or to write beautifully about tragedy. To describe love; If only you could see it.

Write that essay, that Christmas card. Know that none of it means anything. Don't type that comment, that compliment; You no longer have the words.

You crumpled the sheet into an Origami fireball. Fight for love. Destroy yourself. When did you start hiding from the bombs?

What's left to do?

You're scared that poetry Has fallen out of love with you.

Back when I would hold her like teardrops, With no regard for my blistering scleras. The browns of my eyes, scratched out, Leaving no room but hers. What man would allow to fall from his pupils, The kiss of an angel's breath?

If her burnt lips Scorch mine, so be it.

(She called and said, Do you miss me yet?)

November's sting fails To not haunt me. Is this a dagger, I- Kneel before you. Fill from crown to toe, Like I could spill her From these timid veins.

(I called and cried, Is it over yet?)

I remember I tried smoking to forget, (Do you miss me? Do you miss me yet?)

At the bottom of a shot glass sits a piece of me; Might just gamble it away, if you wanna bet.

I said I think I'm going blind, And my lungs are full of ash.

As the plane crashed, she asked Are we there yet?

(A bit of a brain dump idk)

Door lock
Clicks shut,
Kids crack
Clavicles.
Ribcage crunching,
Fractured knuckles.

Clip clop,
Horseshoe,
Tail in the door, you
Lick lips,
Blacksmith,
Sugar cubes.

Fer the ribbon,
Fer the winnin',
Yer a good
Little boy.
Pretty beggar
Fer the sugar
And the toys
(Fer enjoy-
Ment) 

Batter down the 
Wall
When the door's unlocked,
Kids crack,
Bones snap
On the chopping block.

Doorknob,
Keychain
Cancels out
The silent Ks and
Creeping doubt.

Got yer sucker-punch bruise
(I'm a sucker fer amuse-
Ment),
Can't stand up
So I'll kill—die—here.
Can't give it up,
Get a kick from this ruse.
So you clap with the crowd
When yer door slams.

Duck under frame,
And we're f*cked once again,
With yer frick-frack-fruck,
New frock, feminine.
It's a fricative feel:
Flashy new high heels,
And one hairline crack
Through yer skull.

Crick in yer neck,
Splinter, kicked by the clock,
Kids crash.

I snuffed me out / Or I thought I might. Cross-legged on the floor: burn marks, Charred / But I Am melted wax Seeping into my own / Damned conscience.

Scorched.

Little boys burn brighter when they / Realise, Time doesn't stop when you're extinguished. Nobody waits if you slacken / So Pack it up, man—

I picked me up / Or at least I tried.

I don't care If you're burnt out; Jack, be fucking nimble.

You want to torch this city Underground. / This time They will know, I could not have tried harder.

We are men of our words, But Dad chose the money.

And his _words? _Collecting dust / Under A stack of radiology textbooks And the weight of Respectability.

And I I screwed me up / I'm a wretched kid.

I'm going to be just like my Daddy When I grow up.

And I- He could've been, should've been A poet.

But he- I'm going to be, I have to be A doctor.

With grades like those, you're gonna go far.

Then why is he so Stranded?

I'm lighting the match.

Jack, be quick; Those papers won't write themseves.

He says Apple and Tree Is far too cliché, But he knows that I didn't fall far.

Man and son, never young:

Both stunted; Burnt stumps.

It's seeping through my bones like some kind of poison: Where brains meet the flesh, Morality dissolves — Obsession, now, the patron of the soul; My Bible in hand, yet a weight.

I know Styrofoam apples are perfect. I am not sweet, And I do not nourish. You are Autumn leaves, you Crumble beneath my winter boots.

Guilt cracks my clavicle, but I cannot refrain; I remember, you were soaked in pain, Rained on like plastic trees.

They said God, Won't you save her? I said Pastor, I'm too far, And the lightning came to tell me Of my sins:

Rejection of my nature, And destruction of my vessel; Cold unrepentance, for faith that I'm better; Creation to escape my skepticism.

Hurt people hurt others — Am I hurt enough To justify it? The answer is No In any circumstance.

The answer is, I am wicked. The answer is, I'm lost — And you know how I hate to feel foolish.

I know Styrofoam apples are perfect. I am not good, But I must flourish. You were Autumn leaves; it's Snowing now. And if I don't run, I'll die.

I am broken ribs and Shredded polystyrene.

My Bible in hand, yet a weight.

We played hopscotch On the chalk-board gravel, Missed the lines, said It's too much to handle "Liar, liar," — couldn't see the markings, Killed the squirrel, Now your dog ain't barking. Guilty-sounding Secrets but they're all true Just keep quiet, that's what Daddy told you I was young, you Always acted older Burnt our sleeves off, right up to the shoulders Torn bandannas, aluminium soldiers, Crumpled sheets and wires that they soldered Mummy said to leave you to your shooting, Door left open, had to get my boots in. Bullets lined the carpet in your bedroom, Sorry that I Never could believe you. Coward-kid, thought Father was a hero, Saw the bruises, but I wouldn't let go. Said he loves me better than my sister, Torn in half, I'm scared he's gonna kill her Maybe I could Be a better brother, Make him pay, I'll save you and our mother: Creep into your shoes And I'll call shotgun, Fire it through his brain 'cause I'm a good son, Dig a grave so no one ever finds him, Haunt his ghost, I'm always right behind it Lock me up, there's oxygen in jail cells Twelve deep breaths, "We used to walk on egg shells." No more hopscotch, he can never touch you. Now you're safe; Your baby brother loves you.

What teenager sits at the bottom of the stairs Counting the shoes at the door, Counting the scratches on the shelf? Writing crappy poems because

my english teacher said to try harder.

2, 4, 6, 8, 10, 12, 14, 16, 18, 20, 22 shoes.

11 pairs.

Counting to 22 does not fit with the rhythm of what they call 'poetry', but these numbers are God.

I am the sum of every rule book I have read, and the rules govern me wholly.

9th grade maths is not good enough. I am not good enough

Until the rulebook knows me by heart.

By _heart, _they say, the poets write. By brain, they claim, that I was born. By soul, I know that I have none. By _body, _flesh rejects your touch.

I am created from logic and imitation.

I am made without control.

Last night I washed my hands seven times, and got told off for wasting water. I was embarrassed enough to resist the compulsion; Logic dictates I am therefore a fake.

I feel dirty.

Read a book, and I will rip it to shreds in the process. But I am a reader; I am a poet.

Touch me and I will wash my hands of you, only when you cannot see me. I will scrub my skin, and in doing so, flush my blood of you.

My bookshelf is hollow. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24 books.

Eleven-thousand, three-hundred and fifteen pages.

I cannot read any of the titles.

(I'm convinced this prompt is the cure for writer's block) ~ TW: suicidal ideation ~

Ask me who I am; Berate me like my mother. Clear your throat and Dare to choke — a boy like any other.

Evade me if you must. Forget about the stars Gloating through the curtains when you Hide behind those bars.

I might call tomorrow, Jealousy soaked to the bone. Kudos to your sister, never leaving you alone.

Lonely little lemon boy, a shadow of a Man. Nicotine won't fix you Or convince you that it can.

Paracetamol won't kill you Quite as quickly as you'd hope. Release yourself; I'm Screaming, "Baby, drop the fucking rope."

Three times I cried to shooting stars as you Unzipped your wrists. Valour's dead in modern teens; We're caught up in our fists.

Xanax downed for dinner— You're forever stuck inside. Zip me up; I'll take you to the place where heaven died.