Elguardiuz

Being dead used to be like being alive to me. I knew it exists. But I’ve never seen it firsthand. And now that I have, I wished that I could’ve experienced it sooner, The moment I was born just to feel, all of it as a whole. Just to soak in, the feeling of being, dead. Again, again and again. Every single fucking day. Because right now, The feeling of being, dead, covered in red, with every thought I never knew existed, has killed, all my  motivations, of being, alive. And if you thought, this poem was about death, you’re wrong. Because to know how I’m feeling, right now, you have to change the word dead, with al

there was a boy all perfect, clueless and obedient he was always did his papers and all that wasn’t his everyday there was a boy all undefined, shy and timid he was always tried to do everything right but they still hurt him again, again everyday there was a boy all weak, devastated and broken he was laid on the bathroom floor blue questioned everything he had once known everyday there is a boy all perfectly imperfect just the way they wanted him to be he is as he pulls out his belt he stares into the eyes of withering innocence everyday

I didn't build this castle so you could sit on your throne of lies.

Make your poem suffer, it needs to know how you feel. And if it doesn't, your poem is ignorant. Gouge the pen deep within it, until bloody ink stains through. Write very hard so your poem can feel your scars. If you crinkle the corners, good; it needs to have broken tattered bones. Feeling exhausted before your done. Do not share or post your poem so soon, for it needs to feel rejection. Most important, before it dies. Never.. Clean it's wounds, or tape its rips, do no accept forgiveness.. As your poem dies, you'll be surprised. Your dead withered poem, has found new life.

Little Boy Bleeding There once was a boy who lived without joy, His friends called him 'Little Boy Bleeding', When they'd go to the park he'd sit home in the dark, Under a red light, reading. 'What's he reading?' They'd ask as he embarked on his task, And he'd say, 'Guys my heart needs feeding. I sit in my flat to see where I'm at, 'Cos sometimes my feelings need heeding.' But what was he reading, this Little Boy Bleeding, Was it Shakespeare, Shelley or Poe? And what was he heeding while his heart was feeding, Keenan, Yorke or Simone? The medium he took was alas not a book, Or a poem or play now we know, For slowly we learned t