Potential left to waste
I don't want copy paste
I'll draw the lines myself
too bad I never learned,
not afraid to be concerned,
never have I been.

But when the bubble bursts,
the new one blown will never be the same.
I hate the players, not the game.

I don't regret that I loved you,
that I kept trying, I do.
It is the time of breaking ties,
stop the telling of those lies.
I'll regret that.
The laughing when she saw a cat,
the looking down,
the pity,
the storytelling, enormously furious, yet careful eyes.
I'll miss you.
I'll regret it.

Just to **** people off,
to tell them I write.

I wrote a poem last night,
you might not know, but
it's called being productive.

Ever heard of being productive?
You piece of horse manure.

He is an ugly man,
hard to
connect with.

he gets neglected,
or plain rejected,
he doesn't see
what really matters

He is a catcher, angry at batters.

A man to avoid, a man who is better,
he does not fulfill any need, hopeless by
greed and troubled by green.
The last day he was seen,
he carried a stone, to resemble his heart
when he fell apart.

A grip as firm as a pretty girl's stare,
he will demolish he will take care

He picks his victim, tells her to go,
she doesn't mind, the guy, left behind.

Starting to doubt, why even stay kind,
it doesn't help, it doesn't bother.
She doesn't want me, why would another.

Neglect a message, sit at home, call
something off, carelessly roam.

He only gets stronger, whatever you do
whatever you try, it will not work,
he will make you die.

Once I was happy, once I had hope,
once I told everyone with what I did cope,
I wish to not care, but I feel loneliness' stare
and gripping me tight, not enough strenght,
not enough muscles,
too weak to fight.

Loneliness,
I adore you,
I couldn't care less,
when I am alone,
I am a mess,
and useless too,
heartless as stone
I reclimb the throne

I am not lonely, I am
loneliness.

Perspective constantly changes when
you jump. The end pose makes your
view a little rusty. You cannot change
your final vision. I want to keep jumping.

Forever, never be a solid stone or dry
scraped wood. Wind makes me feel chilly,
I get shivers because of rustling leaves.
People call it fear of failing, my mind, downscaling.

But then I see a person, empty as it seems
not constantly thrilled by massive gleams.
I envy those who can control, those with
purpose and a whole different point of view.

Be my supplement, fulfill my instable needs,
enlarge my passion with such might, so I
don't need to learn control. My failure feeds
on insecurity. Stop my jumping, make me fly.