A Love Letter to Taylor Swift

Breaking Up With Depression

His breath tickles my lips,

He loves me.

His breath reeks of booze,

He loves me not.

His fingers interlock mine,

He loves me.

His fingers grab my wrist,

He loves me not.

His hands graze my face,

He loves me.

His hands leave a bruise,

He loves me not.

Finally, the flower has been picked apart.

Finally, the love is dead like her heart.

What do you do when you know you’re going to die? I mean I know I’m not invincible, but death is not in my sights. It could be lurking...

The hot summer sun sends to earth its rays To sting the young worker’s exposed fresh back; Digging down in the hole to pass his days ...

I remember the pine needles and bug bites of summers spent ages ago. I remember branches ripped from growing boughs and stripped of their...