Poets are,

photographers,

on partially-built,

grey skyscrapers.

 

We perch on top,

balancing our desire,

with our fear of heights.

 

We can never show you,

the beauty of the city,

we find ourselves on top of,

despite our best efforts.

 

The concrete city,

is not so dull to us,

the pink underbelly,

teases us playfully,

but won't tease you.

 

I would slash my wrists,

to bleed all over this page,

if it meant something to you;

to hell with the consequences.

 

My crimson essence,

dances into your mind,

awakening forgotten life,

pushing a new passion out,

regenerating hope in hopeless,

people, who don't see beauty for,

what it's worth,

i never stopped,

and I couldn't try,

hard enough to ever,

keep you happy or near,

me in the best or worst of,

times when things broke down,

and there was no solace for the,

wicked and the cruel intentions we,

bounced off of one another's innocence,

on our way to a broken dawn with a shattered,

dusk that always served to remind us of how bad,

our failure was with everything we sincerely tried for.

 

Some things that are broken,

aren't looking for anyone to fix them,

and some shadows dance a lot more,

beautifully than some of the brightest flames.