I'm not a poet
the words I jot down have no particular purpose
"poetry", to me,  is supposed to be cathartic
enabling
relieving
only I know what my words make me feel
only I know what really goes on beyond the words I articulate
I feel in no way professional while writing poetry
I don't try
I just do

I'm not a poet
Poetry is my release
After I write, I can breathe.
I can think.
I can make sense of the feelings I wasn't sure I was even feeling before.
Like having a conversation with myself,
I'm the only person I can talk to.

No, I'm not a poet.
But I think that's okay.
Because it's my therapy instead

Sick I'm ****
I mean **** I'm sick

See I didn't mean to blind you
can you put that behind you?

Ill I'm ****
I mean **** I'm ill

Now you're starting to blame me
listing all the reasons you hate me

But you're ******* sick too
I mean you're a sick **** too

There is no reason you had to do me like that

I mean do me like this
now I see my therapist

three times a week
take pills to sleep

record what I eat
stand on my own two feet

I'm getting better now
so I can be the one to take a bow

I walk down the lane of misery for the last time this year
Reminiscing my failures
I watch my hard work float away like my lovers who promised to stay.
The self-doubt however lingers
The confidence diminishing like the seconds to a new year
The new year of little significance
For we all know we will never change
We will face the same doubts
We will cry for the same reason
We will fight the same battle
and we will never learn
Not this time, not this year, not this new year

I miss the younger me, she who was comfortable wearing whatever she liked.
I miss the younger me who believed in prince charming and a heartfelt love.
I miss the younger me who craved to grow up and make my own choices.
I miss younger me who was allowed to cry when she fell down.
I miss the younger me who found everything interesting.
I miss the younger me who had hope for a better and brighter future.
I miss the younger me.

Poetry is for those who write it,
not for those who read it.

I have a question burning:

. . . . What's the point of living?

My heart is pounding
I'm heavy breathing
My blood is boiling
My face is melting
My hair is pulling
My skin is itching
My nails are hurting
My eyes are clouding
My mouth is drying
My mind is waning
My voice is wailing
My hands are cracking
My stomach is churning
My strength is failing
My care is mortifying
My existence is joking
My work is freezing
My delusions are multiplying
My thoughts are racing
My life is dying
My hopes are groaning
My dreams are poaching
My will power is cooking
My mind's eye is glossing
My mood's-a-changing
No cylinders are firing
My desire is diving
The cycle is beginning
My peace is nuking
Beauty is crumbling
Life's code is encrypting
. . . . No key for decrypting
The way out is blinding
And I'm feeling
. . . . The top of the ceiling
. . . . No more flooring
. . . . Left falling, none for catching
I'm wasting
I'm choking
I'm running
The demons are searching
Me they're consuming
Me they're chewing
Me they're spitting
Me they're crushing
. . . . Causing
. . . . A raining
. . . . Hellfire reckoning
They want me deadening
Me they're taunting
Poking me, torturing
My debt not paying
. . . . It's me they're charging
No recourse, left standing
Consciousness is maddening
My enemies looming
. . . . Gleaning my soul, they're feeding
They're biting
I'm left crying
Hope is fleeting
Friends are fleeing
. . . . This nutcase entertaining
I'm stopping
Left looking
No one is caring
. . . . To grace my being
They see me fading
Cast into the void, they're jeering
Strangers are laughing
There's more I could be saying

But I'm still left wondering:

. . . . What's the point of living?

Saying goodbye
To someone you love
Is like reading the final page
Of an amazing book.

As the last chapter ends
You begin to notice
Just how beautiful
And perfect
The plot always was.  

You appreciate the joy
And even the pain
As you read and thumb
Through every page.

Finally understanding
The moral of the story,
You realize you've reached
The end of this journey.

Although the last sentence  
Is the most difficult to read
Another great book awaits
Once you turn the final page.

Eventually you may stumble
Upon yet another great find.
Or maybe you'll return
To the book you left behind.

You may just discover
Once all is said and done
That this particular book  
Was your favorite story
All along.

Please, don't take it so seriously
It's only poetry
In your poem
You can count
Twelve, six, three
You can make the sky green
Or Mother Theresa mean
You can create anything
Maybe make dogs sing
You can misspell words
However you choose
It's your world
You can't lose
It's your poetry
Don't take it so seroousLee

Leave me to my ****** mood
So I can sit and cry and brood
So do not try to cheer me up
I'm mad about my half-empty cup
If you attempt to make me smile
It will surely **** me off
I want to be angry for a while
And sit around and scoff
So get your happy away from me
It's really an insult
From joy, I want to be free
This is my misery assault