Writing my autobiography
under a pseudonym

With another failure
another escape plan strikes my brain
And this time my brain somehow
tricks me to believe that
Maybe this plan could actually work.
With words in my head
Blood in form of anxiety flowing through my veins,
I sit in a crowded room feeling empty,
Wondering what my presence
In this world looks like,
What I look like from up there.
Hours and hours of over thinking
Leaves a shallow void in my head,
A space of nothingness.
Maybe I should execute this plan
Maybe I shouldn't
Maybe I should start caring for things a little more,
Maybe I shouldn't
For all my failures haven't made me any different,
But oh well been successful in making me that abandoned, decrepit building that just exists with no life in it.
They say try harder
But I fall harder and harder with each trial.
I need a remedy
But mind you not your pity
For I could be
A hurricane,
A volcano,
A flower,
A mountain,
But that's another 'could've been' story.
Right now I'm nothing but a mere shadow
Looking for the person over it.

Do I think about you?
That's not really a fair question.
Yeah, things are different now, but how could I not think about you?
Have you ever known something to be so real, something you were so sure of at one point and then just forget it?
No, you haven't. I'm not sure that many people have or even understand what I'm talking about, but listen to me.
I don't remember much from before, but I remember the feeling...and apparently how I felt about you is not something that can be forgotten.
I remember what you meant to me, what you made my heart feel and I am desperately running to that feeling.
I feel like I'll never reach the point I'm trying to, but I promise you I am trying.
This feeling that I know I've felt, the one I can hardly remember is something that I want again, something that I need again.
Not with anyone though, but with you the girl I see in my head in those white sheets, under that blue comforter, on top of that lonely pink pillow.
You're like a mirage I'm praying will manifest in my reality so I no longer have to dream of you and only see a shadow.
So yes, I think about you.

Just by hearing you think it,
but I swear I'm seeing a whole different story
hidden between the lips that you're telling your stories with.
It's not enough to spill the beans that've been circling your width.
Semi-solid liquid rulers are difficult things to measure thickness with,
but this cake's so bulmically thin that it's destined to make whoever eats it sick,
and I just lost my appetite anyway.

I wonder how many books you've read on creativity.
Have they made nearly as much sense as your writing does to me?
(In that case, it's probably not very many.)
I often wonder what it is that makes one poet better than another at poetry.
Is it something in the ability to let go?
To feel free to type wildly regardless of judgement/ego/typos?

I doubt it.

because when she was young,

people would ask her

"what superpower,

do you wish for?"

so without any hesitation

she replied "invisibility."

and then,

and then she grew up realising

it came true.