I wish I didn't think about you,
In the middle of the night.
I wish I didn't care for you,
Like you don't care for me.
I wish there were different obstacles
Between you and I, that I may overcome.
I wish you hated me,
Because then I wouldn't get to see your smiles.
I wish you loved me,
But that's asking too much.
I wish I were a better person,
Who could be someone trustworthy.
I wish I didn't feel guilty,
But I deserve the anguish that accompanies it.
I wish.
I wish I could be the man you deserved,
But it's impossible.
I wish you cared about me,
Even when I know it's better that you don't.
I wish I could spoil you,
And tell you what you mean to me.
I wish you'd be open and receptive,
Though I know it is impractical.
I wish

There's a darkness that dwells within me, like all of us, except mine revels in finding the subtle ways to ****** me into its way of thinking.
Trapping me like an insect in amber in patterns of self loathing and despair.
It comes upon me slowly, seeing in through the cracks in my facade that I present to the Grand Masquerade we call society, some days. Others it strikes like lightning from a clear, cloudless sky.
But, no matter how it comes to me it is always devastating, not in the least because the words are sharp and pry my soul apart, nor because I shut the world out and try to protect myself and the world from my darkness, but because I always open the door when it knocks. I can't help it, it feels like home and I hate it. The comforting despair-- it's a lie and a mockery as are the pace and respite it brings.
Even knowing all of this, I still shut myself out, withdraw and isolate because I believe I'm not good enough.
And in some ways, it's right. The crux is, I know some things I enjoy are wrong and terrible, but I can no more change them than I can ***** out the stars. I still try to be better, every day, I try to be a light in the darkness, but in days like today I'm naught but the last vestiges of a dying fire, just a few embers glowing dimly covered in hot ash waiting for more fuel to burn or the final wisps of smoke as the fire within me dies.

She wonders what I see in her?
I see the breeze gently tugging at her hair, loose strands floating.
Or the bright colors of her eyes, glistening like morning dew.
The way her freckles draw me in, begging for me to count them.
Yet those are superficial, but not trivial.
She's like a spring flower, full of life and vibrancy.
It's a wonder each and everyday I see her.
She so brave,  growing in the autumn, with cold spiteful winds and harsh freezing emotions of those around her.
If I were a gardener, I'd move her inside for the winter and shelter her.
But she would lose her tenacity and strength.
I watch her struggle and offer what comfort I can, because unlike a flower she is capable of changing and adapting.
I can only watch and hope that she continues to bloom beautifully

Sometimes I am words,
Sometimes words are me.
Right now is not either of those.

Like a siren song,
the void has called to me.
Whispers and melodies
and soft lullaby's
to draw me in
to death's cold embrace.

I listened without acting,
with patience and clarity.
Its dark harmonies
washed over me
until I was drowning in them.
Still, I made no move to act.
I drank deep and filled myself,
until finally the void was within me

Overflowing, but not overfilled
I understood the call,
the peace and serenity
and the freedom from fear.
My eyes opened to the truth:
Easy isn't always right,
the struggles we face
can spark the firecrest joy
or the most harrowing sorrows.

I tried to find the profound
to find simply the cliched and trite.
And still the void calls to me,
filling me with silence and peace