I can feel it,
I know you're all trying
to drill these truths into my brain.
But a hole is a hole just the same,
and the truth can fall right back out
of the place it found its way in.
Sometimes, I think I'm losing more
confidence with each compliment.
I'm not fishing for
your washed up arguments,
I just can't catch a real break.
At times it can be hard to tell
with each short lived side glance,
but my ego's just a man made lake.
Drill, drill, drill
only if it scares the fish away.
But even if you scattered them,
it doesn't mean they won't find
a way to stay.
All truth is subjective,
just like how I look in a reflection,
and how safe can I really be?
My head has holes from
every pessimistic approach,
yet optimism has never really
suited me.

*-Makenzie.

poetry is a lost language
dead like magnetic philosophers
at the end of ballpoint pens
and the puzzle has no outline
and the puzzle has no image
but it is coiled like a snake
in a Tesla machine

He wore his heart
Upon his sleeve
She wore the scars
Of many years eve
He was searching
She was lost
But love like that
Comes at a cost.

She is
An alarm clock
Going off
At almost regular intervals
Bursts of rage
And uncontrolled emotion
Blaring
From somewhere deep inside her
Set off
By something as insignificant
As the passing of a minute.
Very few people
Can find the snooze button
In the groggy darkness
Of early morning
And if they do
She is silenced for a bit
And sweet, sweet dreams
Return
If only for a short while
Until the time comes
For her to rip you from your slumber
Again.
Again.
Again.