Here, have a poem I conformed into writing on fb

I want to force the walls to bleed for me. Drag my nails across the concrete and listen to the ground screaming, choking on my resentment. There's no magic in my eyes, nor a love that can replace the black hole spreading anxiety inbetween the spaces of my breast. Miles and miles and I'm still not walking for the right reasons. I don't sleep much, but there's an infinite limelight of dreams passing by in .5 second intervals buried somewhere deeply just behind my eyelids. I'm ok I'm ok I'm ok let me let it out so I can breathe my needs into the empty space you allow me to exist in a few hours at a time. My fingers are swallowing things I've never learned to grasp firmly enough to comprehend behind empathy lidden envy. Mosquito bites brand me like a last name I never wanted to keep alive in a crummbled man's sorry goodbye. Goodbye is imprinted into my soul signiture like a fire kissing the lonilenss I'd die without if I couldn't write for you in detail just how completely I want to inspire just one warped beauty into appreciating themselves. Won't you please tell her I love her because I'll probably change again before she believes me. All I need is a laugh and something strong to dull the rain I haven't metamorphosised into in well over a week. And I swear, I've been watching that parking lot hoping the one light I need will stop flickering off every five minutes. I could tell you an endless story about how I watched a candle burn simply to hold a sense of my identity in a few moments wasted on sanity. I could, but I won't. No, and you can feel just how heavy my heart beats for the complications I second guess every single fucking day. That I live in an optical illusion self conspiracy would conform for. Dirty, gritty, nasty rock and roll rolls off my psyche like a second skin. Shedding and reconstructing my body in ways I never imagined something as over looked as cells paint me as for the future. I'm a selfish poetry my inner goddess wishes could begin to hemorrhage away from outside on my grandmother's porch. And what does that say to you? Please, god, just fucking tell me I'm not the only person that watches the clouds hoping I'll find the will to pray, if only just one more time to tell my daughter I won't let her down. That I see her every time the moon hangs low enough for me to find an answer in the sound of - a.m. forgiveness. Blank. You'll understand I'm so much more than you could ever truly see if you just give me enough time to explain that I'm blind, and that I would kill for a hindsight that would flash brightly enough for the very stars themselves to weep for in hopes that we could all sleep soundly at night.