I asked myself "what if i wrote

A poetry book or a novel to dote

On everything that i never was

Or is it better if I write about my heart"

The heart that's inside of me

Do i know its there?

Sure it's beating but i don't really care

About broken bones or scars or bruises

Under the skin where he all but chooses

To cover me with blood, invisible to the eye

Like shooting stars on a dark summer night

I wondered why no one ever saw

What it meant to be whole or empty or none

Nihilism is a joke, since it means nothing at all

But faith hurts a little more since it means sacrifice

And how can i sacrifice when i have nothing to give

When nihilism is easier and atheism isn't a sin

It may be time to move on from the past

Since i've grown and felt flowers within my cracks

But some of the flowers have killed me inside

Since they were made out of poison, or pain, or pride

I feel much more gray now, and it feels nice

To not feel like everything has to be black and white

Where that white flag that hovered over my head

Is now just sitting outside of my bed

That's an improvement, i think at least

But fuck them if they think i'll burn it for peace