Rip away the flesh that clothes this unclean soul

Raw muscles and veins exposed only to realise, beauty is not only skin deep.
The dying soul that hides behind this flesh, this facade,
Rotten and decaying

I realise it is not some poor soul only to be given my slight sympathy from afar
But my own

The essence of your being is here to stay
as it infuses with my skin and heart and eyes and touch
my skin has been tattooed through your caress
and my heart has been mended by the way your eyes peer into my soul you fill me with love and make me whole

in retrospect i truly thought i knew what love was
but this was all a lie until i had met you
masochistic obsession is all i was familiar with
blinking the past away
i am aware of you and our future and our present
and how i will never let that get away

my life is sadness

As if you didn't already know that,
I'm a teenager after all

But this isn't a poem about a sad wasted life

It's a bland poem about a sad artist

Nothing I can ever do will make it meaningful

There's no point to it

I can create,

Write some profound or empty poetry

Make some genius or contrived music

Paint some ugly or beautiful pictures

gentrify my sadness,

make it pretty
make it art

It doesn't make it anything more than a black hole

a black hole that throws out a portrait of a boy with a million eyes that can't see anything

I realise now
that sadness

no matter how much I dress it up

Is sadness

And even if it's pretty or artistic

it's never going to be more than that

Silence is nothingness, yet it speaks
A million words packed into a mere few seconds which seem to last a painful infinity
Your silence it speaks, it is manufactured to torture
Your eyes filled with hate
Now here I stand, begging you to speak, something, anything, but nothing all the same