I'm not really a poet, but I'll write a poem anyway.
Reading a good poem is like c*mming, but for your soul
I don't know whether to be insulted or to thank you for calling me a succubus.
Humans make my brain hurt. Yes, that includes me.
I don't know what I want but I'm pretty sure I'll get it.
I think I'd be a better writer if I didn't think so much.
Can't tell if I'm "need to eat" hungry or if it's the black hole in my chest beckoning to be fed.
Some days live wire lust for life
Others, the walking dead.
(Un)Inspired Pyro
You don't have to rhyme to be a poem.
How sweet it is!

I carry the torch of this misery.
The bearer of all secrets that kept us terminally sick.
Held hostage by brokenness
Hostess to alcoholism, cynicism, paranoid delusions
A pillar upon which a false empire was built?
Was the straw that broke the camel's back composed of grass or guilt?

A person who feels like home can be dangerous when you carry the blame of destroying the one you grew in.

Emerged from my isolation to walk under the stars.
$11.11 was the total for my holiday purchase of alcohol and cigarettes
I wished upon a scar that I would one day grow to be whole.
I listened to your playlist on the cold walk home.

These metaphors for living pure are cheesy
All existence is chaos
Anthems of anger, ballads for those who have lost
Holding fading souls and cradling hearts like hammocks for the homeless

There are forbidden things bursting forth from beneath my tongue like blooming flowers from the ground.
Urging me to the arms of strangers.
No, there will never be another special one, no like-minded soul to trust and confide in. My past rusts within me.

I am a human vault with no combination. Feeling nostalgic again for relationships I ruined.
On purpose in distrust I'm alone with all this lust again.
Sometimes self-awareness feels like a sham.
Will I ever know who I am?

Knowing me is more an eternal sigh and shake of the head than a pleasure.
I wish I was alright but I just might have to become okay with being all wrong forever.
Band-aids don't work on hearts.

Good things aren't the only things that fall apart. Nobody starts out exactly where they need to be.
The journey is the best part, though it isn't always pretty.
"I'd rather be a lonely forest than a busy street."
We all can be ugly, we all can be beautiful.
Most importantly, we all can be whoever we want to be.

I want to stop obsessing over the wound and pay attention to the healing.
Accept the past, begin forgiving.
Trek the bumpy road ahead to self-love and recovery.

Hard to talk about things when you have nobody to talk to.
Hard to have a good day when there's nowhere to go and nothing to do.
Hard to feel love when you end up hurting or pushing away everyone who's ever cared about you.
Being trapped inside this compassionless life has been eating my soul.
I'm complacent and lazy and I feel so alone.
It's cold it's cold it's cold.
But I guess I can feel a little less alone knowing my bones have something in common with the weather.
Writing letters to everyone who's bed I've ever slept in saying thank you for the tenderness.
*** is just a vacation from the emptiness.
Having fun seems mythical from where I stand today.
It's an art being this much of a burden, no matter where I am, I'm in somebody's way/
Happiness is an art and I'm all out of paints

Filling in the blanks.
Throw away worn out pages from the journal of my past.
Forgetting names, relationships that didn't last.
No class, sensible sass on the *** of my jeans.
Playing with words when I want to be mean.
Don't want to be needy.
Forgotten peace treaty with the demons eating my psyche.
I'm ugly, you're boring, we're all like vampires feeding on each other.
Undeniable hate, but I still always say "We should love one another."
Denial undercover, smother the problems I'm not yet equipped to recover from with a sly wit.
Another temporary fix to cover up the shiit that somehow replaced the mud and the blood in my veins.
I'm lonely and strange and beginning to prefer it this way.
Not well behaved, I don't feel like pretending to be today.
That's okay, I'll try again tomorrow.
Indian giver, time's always borrowed.
Mostly hollow but I'm trying harder every day to gain the patience it takes to fill in the blanks.

i want to empty my brain
free myself of never ending pain, the weight of these chains
i want to drive in the rain, never see the east coast again
wishing all this needless suffering could be forgotten
but is my past truly the root of why I feel so rotten?
is retaliation against these feelings of meaninglessness ever going to lift the curse?
any grandeur is a fantasy it's true I'm delusional. the cycling is endless, of this i am sure.
how can i reverse the sinking thinking that takes me so low my only answer is drinking?
making goals, feeling love, pulls me out from these holes I've dug.
my impatience is unsatisfied when i am reminded (as i always am) enlightenment and contentment take time