I've been writing as an adolescent, as a teen filled
with adult lessons. Somewhat a mix of all my confessions,
and a touch of  my deepest depressions.
I use them all as a weapon, to **** away all thoughts
of suicide. My escape is in the words I write. The pictures I
try to describe, in all the lows between my little highs.

I question a lot about life—like why the talented famous
supposedly have to die so early. To have never aged poorly;
they only respect you now out of paying respect for your death.
To pretend they were your biggest fan, or closest friend.

Why publications ask me for fees they know I can never afford,
to invest in your royalties, and never gave a chance to your
dreams worth. I've battling all my addictions, trying to fill
myself with empty pieces. Seeing girls for only kisses,
considering getting paid for being involved with a mistress.
Just to afford to start up my business, to help those in their poverty.
But obviously that's not a possibility, but it doesn't stop me from wondering.

I've had my fill of gluttony, in pleasing my flesh.
In the thresh of cutting away my chances of being blessed.
Pretty am a mess—while putting on my face of the best, and
keeping a little pride on my chest. I still don't know how to dance,
but I pretty much prance in my room before I write a poem.
Switch between writing a little more or riding my way into
watching a little ****.

I don't trust my morals, if they're not on a placement of their
foundations. Ethics are kind of shaky, if you spirit is out of
concentration. I'm seeking for good relations, but hate to be basic.
Or basically falling over a girl who's just hungry for money chasing.
And it's so frustrating, when the right one you rightly push off.  
And now it's just awkward for you both. I'm not to good with my
feelings around pretty girls.

But that's me I guess,
writing late hours when I should be in bed.
Acting as I if don't really care—so oftentimes rare.
A habit rabbit, that my eyes are a black hare. Self destructive,  
self distracting kind of traits. I'm in dire straits, Lord please
save me from psychotic ways.

I hope this isn't where I die today. After having the usual
psychotic break.

The price of a critically known, costs me being
secretly alone. Torn in all of the successes,
and what it took on all the stages I now perform.
Oh where is my soul, where is my soul?

Children of a whole lot of broken homes,
too broke for the things they can't afford.
I just wanted to buy things I could hold,
a little successful wealth to call my own.
Oh where is my soul, where is my soul?

A crying voice in a cheerful poem,
a choking **** disguised as a rose.
In my heart—all cracks and holes,
and I hope you don't see into it, to question it's morals.
I'm a thousand hurts, in a few hundred acclaimed poems.
Oh where is my soul, where is my soul?

A desire to love; desired to have been loved,
to an open hand joy, not trapped in a glove.
Not laughing at myself, as being less than enough,
feeding on my pleasures, and but still to starve.
I have no place for my heart—but just the scars pus.
Oh where is my soul, where is my soul?

Really I don't know!

Sometimes, the words don’t come.

The consistent stream of consciousness, ceases.

I am left with nothing to say.

There is a beauty in the broken mind.

Like an abandoned building taken by nature.

It is not that my mind does not work.

It is that it works too fast,

And I am left behind,

Scrabbling in the dust,

Desperately seeking a connection,

In the discarded fragments of thought.

I am fighting a losing battle.

I fear the white flag will soon arise.

And signal the end.

Only a man can be truly alone
A woman has inherent value
But a man
Is only valuable as to what he can provide

What becomes of me
when nothing remains
my god
it's happening again
close your eyes

I stumble over myself
in the darkness of mind
and I perceive myself
as I am, as I am not

I am he
he is they
they are we
and I am nothing
but the sum of my parts

Ideas take shape
they form,
they split
and I am overcome
I am --
countless parts
moving in unison

I am he
he is they
they are we
we are she
she is I
and I am no longer--
alone in the dark.

every night I strive to bury your love in the mud
my hands and heart full of blood
next morning it reblooms with greater vigor
bypassing my rigor
enlightening me about your rebirth with all your purity
and rarity

I can't take another step
To tote your pain and mine.
You say that
You don't want to be here
Nor do I.
No future for you.
I can't take another step.
I can't carry your burden and mine.
You don't really want to go.
I don't know how to help.
I love you.
It is my turn.
I will take another step.