Does
          writing
                       about
                                your
                                       self-hatred  
                                                   ­      make
                                                            ­       it
                                                                ­        easier

                                                 ­                                  to
                  
                                                                ­                          handle
                                                                ­                                       ?

My poems are garbled thoughts moulded into a predictable structure

                                                      ­if
                   i
                                     change
                                                          ­     what
             is
                            expected



does that mean my writing is worthy of praise?

Numb, I am so numb
Numb, I cannot feel
Numb, I am broken
Numb, What is pain?
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ERROR
I am a product of my fAUltY programming

I am such a failure I can't even write a poem.

I can't string my simple thoughts into coherent sentences

What

A

****-up

I’ve always been peculiar
                                      My poems are self-assured nonsense
Chaos is soothing
                                                    Unique is a matter of perspective

I can’t sleep; I should take a pill for that
I can’t eat; I should take another pill
I hear voices; one more pill
I’m not happy; another pill
I’ve taken too many pills, I’m dying and I can’t take a pill for that

Babbling brook                                                               Babbling brook
Babbling brook             Alice slays the jabberwocky           Babbling brook
Babbling brook                                                                Babbling brook


solitude is the only logical conclusion.                              what am I?


Babbling brook                                                               Babbling brook
Babbling brook                                                               Babbling brook
Babbling brook                 Faciens ars est errata                 Babbling brook

Poetry is the purest form of introspection.
The examination of one’s conscience, thoughts and feelings can be so difficult
Look at my words and understand me
I am my words.
I am my sentences.
I am my poems.

Maybe I'll find
                          my answers
                                                  at the bottom
                                
                                                                           of this bottle

I am a succubus: my caress turns you to putty in my hands.
My allure is effortless: your limbs are mine to do with as I desire.


You cannot resist my allure just like a fish to the bait

Crack the wall
Crack my skin
To hide the cracked state I’m in
Keep falling into pieces
Keep telling myself I’m lying
You can see my tear stained face
Of course I’m ******* lying
I cannot cope
I cannot cope
Why can’t I ******* cope?
Maybe I need an intervention
Maybe it’s beyond my comprehension
But the smug look
Of my own mind
Likes to remind
Death is kind

I am aching to create but I can't

I feel like such a ****-up but I can't

I spill my guts onto the page

                            where
                                              has

                                                       my
                          sanity
                                             gone
                                                              ?

I’m sitting out on the patio
Drinking a G & T
My heart swells and the sun is bright
And it’s shining down on me.

Sunflowers are blooming and I’ll pour just one more drink cause I’m addicted to the sunshine bubbling inside me with every sip

Gin and sunshine melts the world
My vision is blurred but improved
I’m fuzzy and warm and I feel a bit happy cause I’m numbing my senses from all of reality

I'm living in a world of perpetual misery
My life is meaningless and so am I
Who cares if I deserve to live?
That doesn’t change that I want to die
The monotony is agonizing
Work and Sleep
Work and Sleep
Work and Sleep
Maybe my death would cause some change just a tiny rift
And away my soulless corpse would drift
Cause the monotony of life really makes me tear apart my wrist

Aristocracy is opulence:
encrusted with diamonds.

I've amassed an abundance of
frivolous jewels; they adorn my
band of silver filled with prestige

It's supposed to be the most wonderful time of the year
but all that happiness pushes me deeper into the abyss of self-loathing

Hollow abysses of anguish, lie deep within a poets eyes

Creativity is a result of torment
Poetry is beauty written by the miserable

**** I messed it up
                                  I mess everything up

I'm a ******* failure

Nary an original thought possesses me,

maybe I should become mute?

But then how would I boast about my obnoxious self perceived importance?

It's 3 am and I feel like ****

what else is ******* new?

Terminology so vibrant doesn't suit achromatic souls nor does the labyrinth-like structures peppered by aureate phrases that I have a fondness for

what the ******* point is?

She wishes on the dandelions
She is a child at heart
But she wishes for her happiness
And that that happiness won’t depart
She cannot deal with sadness and the bruises and the pain so she wishes on the dandelions that those feelings will go away
But her wishes now are useless so her tears are now the norm and she wishes that her crying would end this thunderstorm.
The dandelions are dying and now so are her dreams
But she still wishes on the dandelions for the smiles she doesn’t beam

I haven't written in a while and my poems only seem to feel forced
unless I'm in a general state of desolate despair