i.
lone wolves wear solitude around their necks like a medallion, but also a chain, a collar, tying their strength down.

ii.
some hide solitude in their ribcages or build forts, ***** walls. the desperation shines through the cracks.

iii.
many wear the solitude on their shoulders like heavy cloaks, attempting to block out the cold and rain, but only weighing themselves down.

iv.
people have dragged it around like a troublesome child. they want to be rid of it, shove on someone else to deal with, but they grip it tight.

v.
i've seen some spin solitude into a thread so fine you can barely see it, and tie it around their life like a noose. pulling it tight, they use this solitude to stitch their life into a tidy package .

frozen in time, stuck in place. a machine,
a puppet moving along the path I always go
in circles
I always go in circles,
on repeat
on repeat
on repeat
on repeat
on repeat
I always go in a circle go in a
circle, beating around the
beating around the
bush the bush
the bush.
trying to reach inside myself to
find the words
to find the words
to say
to say
to say
to say to say to say to say to say to say to say to say to say to say to say to say-

Digging deeper and deeper. I search for courage for inspiration
inspiration
inspiration
but all I find is silence,
heavy as a stone.
my
back
my back bends beneath
the beneath the
beneath the weight of it.

in circles trying to figure out centaur spines. thinking about bleeding in the cold green sea as waves crash and collapse against each other like lovers hungrily falling into each other's embrace. listening to old songs I've heard many times before. reading old books I've read many more times before. waiting for summer. not suntan-watermelon-bikini-beachfront summer. mountain-heatwaves-at-home-forest summer. I want to pretend it lasts for ever and then ends. I'm bored, so kiss me goodbye before I leave.

I don't play video games or do anything involving interaction with those who don't understand, don't want to understand, won't [ever] understand, cannot understand that this is how our twisted world works. I try not to wake the dormant rage sleeping in my bones like a feral beast, some lithe lethal six-armed war goddess of terror and the winds of unpredictability, goes by A Revolutionary's Fury. That lady will steal common sense and all manners, swipe your self-control and make you dance at her whim, a puppet made of mincemeat and dreams. She got a third eye, she got a river for a soul, she got a pet tiger who can **** the strongest dragons and whip up clouds that obscure reason. Fury's a scary lady and I'm not going to hand over the reins.

like a Balloon
pain swells Suddenly in
my Chest
momentarily--a Curious
sensation
Of losing my breath
I feel some
part of me
Float
into the cracks Between
pieces Of sky
The sunlight Smudges away allthe
sharp Edges,leaving behind
Only the remains of an unanswered Question.

I hate people like you,
people who judge and insult,
you pore over everything
and point out
every
little
flaw
and your victims can't rise above the hate
but sometimes you don't seem bad
and you and your victim become friends
but sometimes you're the **** you always were once again
and your victim remembers who you
really are.
your victims go through hell as your friend,but you still throw them aside
when you discover a flaw.

and worst of all,
you never realize how much damage
you cause.

when you bike in circles
when you read Murakami again
when you read what's between the lines

self-consciousness is realization of the flaws within this self.

when you listen to music
when you fall apart
when you fall asleep

this self right now cannot escape or be escaped

when you scratch away the fading façade
when you rewrite your old works
when you rewrite memories as fables

'Home: a place to escape to or from.'

when you realize it's over
when you fall apart
when you fall asleep
when you fall asleep.

I wish I was still a good writer sometimes,
when I'm somewhere
where my words
would be useful
but now
my one talent
has floated away
like the Lorax once did
now I have nothing
and my strength has
dissipated
I can't write anymore
No more essays and witticisms
for me.
but my soul somehow dug
these words up
and my brain strung them together
and now I have my poems to cling to
when I miss my talent for words

I started listening to music that reminds me of being someone else

I wish I could be wires and gears or at least calmer; a little apathy could do me some good

I wish I was better at liking Physics.I tried at least

I will never be the engineer my parents haven't groomed me to be yet wished for. my grandma took care of me and fed me words and now I'm a writer

whatever poetry is worth nowadays it is still not enough

Why is the only way to get some sleep
ripping up anything and everything in the room that breathes?Why do you find it so hard to believe that slicing open my head with figurative pointy objects(memories,criticism) is a great way to get yourself writing?Writing is like bleeding anyway.

every day,
I rewrite myself.
infinitive fingers and sinewy syntax for muscle,  bones of good solid prose as a frame.  my hair stays the same-- always five syllables long and inky black.
attitude slicker than Bill Shakespeare
sometimes a grin like Lewis Carroll
or an enigmatic e.e. cummings glint
in my eye is thrown in.
I always write in something I haven't written before.

maybe if I revise myself enough
I can overwrite my mistakes ;
just remove a stanza and
swap synonyms,
and I can start anew.

that would be nice.

but not all mistakes can be fixed
in the next draft just like that.
you've gotta bleed for your mistakes and you've gotta bleed for your words,you hear me?