i tried so hard
but you hid the key
in the deepest crevices
only to be used as the last resort.

i tried so hard
to find meaning
in the words you say
envious of the way words
flowed out of your pen

i tried so hard
to put words to how i felt
little did i know
there was nothing to describe
all that was left was
the match on the ground
and the image of your back.

be kind to the earth
for it rewards you with its skies
and you choose to destroy it

it offers you its greens
and you choose to poison it

it rewards you with its tools
and you choose to
dig your own grave with it.

forgive me for i cannot see
beauty in sunsets
but instead beauty
in the soiled snow
on the sides of the main road

i'm sorry that instead
of flowers in my hair
and the wind's songs in my heart
i find joy in the strain of my eyes
from staying online a little too late

i'm sorry that instead
of the awakening of the sun
being the first thing on my mind
it's the thought of a train
on my way to the welcoming city

forgive me.

for i immerse myself in humanity
as opposed to the wonders of nature.

at four i wanted to be a princess
at eight i wanted a prince
at nine i wanted a bad boy
at eleven i wanted my first kiss
at twelve i wanted someone to love me
at thirteen i realized no one cared
at fourteen i wanted attention
at fifteen i stopped being there.

oh dear,
you reek of self loathing
and cynicism
i'm surprised you haven't
fallen off that *******
cross you nailed yourself on
and i'm sorry for the crude metaphor
but really i'm not
because this god didn't die
on the cross
just so you could hate yourself
and wallow in self pity

love, you're hardly sixteen
but i'm starting to think
you're digging yourself
a grave sixteen
feet under

does it tire you
hating yourself
because baby,
you're not the only one
without a perfect mommy or daddy

honey,
please step off that pedestal
you've put yourself on

my dearest,
i just fear
you might
tumble right off.

you know,
poetry is one
big pile of ****.
or should i say
****?

excuse me,
i hadn't had anymore
euphemisms to spare.

poetry is one big ****
euphemism.

my life *****.
i'm sad.
well ****, no one's ever gonna love me.

but instead,
no i waltz across
these subjects
and pretend all is well
because plate this
**** you have for life
in pure gold
and call it art

and hell,
you'll make ******* millions.