Gypsy Living

I'm tired
I've written of a love I'll never taste
A dried up tongue
From cutting up too many words
With my hate
With my haste

And I'm cold
My fingers frozen to the bones
Still they type away
Poems
That will never be read
Like Emily Dickenson
I'd rather be dead than publish

My secrets aren't dark
And they aren't anything new
But cut me open, and this
Is all that I am
A broken spirited disaster
With a splash of art
The one thing I can always love
That won't tear me apart

I am human, I bleed
I feel what others feel
My empathy knows no bounds
It vibrates off my skin
and pours out of my eyes
It floats until it finds it's way up
To some heaven beyond our skies

I hope to one day travel
I'd like to see the world
And I wonder what it'd make of me
A simple, vacant girl...
I've never felt quite whole
I'm only a half; a piece
I'm looking for some dirt from France
To complete the rest of me

I want to taste the accents
On the words that make me smile
And feel rain on my skin
That's traveled over desert miles
I just might give up love
If it meant a gypsy living
The only thing that stops me
Is fear of my own empty,
bitter ending.

Your Mistake

I'm running
Let my lungs fill with blood
Slit a smile from my throat
Bind me with your words
And watch me choke

I'll listen
But I can't hear a thing
A wounded escape
And a tightly bound timing
About to take shape

With fear
I'll sit here still with shock
And see what you cannot
A trip timing shot
From a shaking hand

I'm stronger
Break my hand on your face
A bad idea was your mistake
The sweetest thing you'll never taste

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so this poem is pretty dark, but hey, I suppose when I write I'm just my alter-ego or something. I was in a bad mood the day I wrote this, in case you couldn't already tell, but I like the angst that pours out of it's words. I'd love to know what everyone else thinks too:)