The art of hating yourself
Is not easily achieved.
It takes motavation,
Words whispered across lunch rooms,
"Ugly, fat, stupid, freak"
It takes observation,
Hours staring at the pretty faces in the magazine,
Hours of trying hard to be something else
Hours feeling more lost then when you started.
It takes practice,
Feeling insecure as you walk down the hallway
Refusing food during the day,
doing crunches by night.
And of course it takes a certain type of person
For it to really take over the mind
A perfectionist
A person with a bad past or a uncertain future
A girl who blames herself
A girl who knows its her fault
If you are truly serious
about embarking on this journey,
This journey of unsatisfaction and secrecy,
Pushing people away and always, always
Craving,
Striving,
Searching,
Starving,
Needing,
That promise of perfection,
Take a class from the master
Or two
Or three
She's right here in town
The most dedicated and driven
The best of the best
She has cultivated
The Art of Hating herself
And she's the person I see in the mirror
Staring right back at me

Laying in bed,

she told me 
all about her

most recent lover;

how he had broken

her like a clock.

“You see, I can’t move

anymore,” she said,
“You see, I can’t feel
anymore,” she said.

Her hands shook

and she got so pale
simply at the thought
of it all.

I rolled over,

—I am no superhero,

sweetheart—

Don’t believe I will save you,

Don’t believe I will kiss you,

I will not hold you hand.

“This isn't your rebound,
sweetheart, 
it is your rehabilitation,”

I told her.

This is your rehabilitation
for all the times

you fell in love

and couldn't get back
up,

for all the men
that seemed so sweet

but never delivered.

Don’t believe I will save you,
Don’t believe I will fix you,
“This isn't your resolution
,
sweetheart, it is your retribution,"

I told her.
This is your retribution,

so **** me

like all the men

who ****** you over,
like all the men
who broke you down.

**** me like 
a woman with no heart

and one day you will
realize it may not
 be
pretend anymore.

—I'm no superhero,

sweetheart—

But I will sure as hell

play the villain,

because most of 
the time
that is all you truly 
need.

poetry is dead
in the venues we
are accustomed
there is no
beat
sitting on stage
preaching
the madness
no
romantics
in stony silence
as the pages turn
we have no
present day
poets
that still
believe in
the written word
and the effect a
line
break
can
have
on a reader
no no no
no more
no one wants
to settle for behind
the scenes
rockstar lifestyles
don't present themselves
to the typists
beating their keyboards
as they do
their wives
but that's how it goes
these are for me
anyways
not you
this is the purging
of every sinful thought
I create
you don't know the
half of it
probably none
at all
but that's how it goes
these lines
all this poetry
isn't made
for kindles
and smart phones
no more
typewriters
or weekly readings
only me
dark in my room
poisoning
the text box
and shivering
guiltily as i
write
one
more
line

I crushed a fly
against my computer
screen. the smudge
it left was not worth
the effort it took
to
**** it.

so it goes

they'll put up a statue for
the dead long buried
in graves gray as any other
under grass as green
as any other
they'll say some nice words
it will be nice
to hear

stop by once a year
to remember
bring a flower or two
wilted as any other
and the memories
fading fast as any other
maybe it'll help
bury the regret
next to them
under the time
under the
justifications and
military commendations
under the drink
six feet of everything
piling up

they'll put up a statue
it'll be nice to see
won't it?
yea I think it will be
real nice commemoration
consolation
real nice
they'll say some nice words
make sure everyone's a hero
it'll be nice to hear
but they're still as
dead
as any other

I hope you know
I'm losing my ******* mind
slowly
steadily
--what's that they say
about the turtle
and that
******* rabbit?--
been racing too long
where's that finish line
where's that light
that one they say
ends the tunnel
I'm exhausted
I hear it in the back
that turtle
whispers
as he catches up
I hear it in the back
of my head
he's coming for
my sanity
he knows I know
we aren't *******
idiots
that madness is coming
he is coming
and he will not wait
he will not stop
free fall is great
oh the jump is a beautiful thing
but the rocks still hurt
and they look bigger
every *******
second

they're off on
the last lap
the young rabbit
far in the lead
but woah
there goes that
******* turtle
coming round the
final turn
catching up
and everyone knows
this isn't a race
I can win