When I fingered the thin skin on my left, vein-bulging limb
Where the forearm adheres to the costly little hand
I realized in all my intense ardor for pain
That there in my penitence, self-pity, self-loathe
I am a narcissist.
Laden with self-obsessed sorrow
There is a selfishness in being a dreary,
To feel for oneself,
When others care too much
An aggregation of sympathizing sobs and tears
Too much for an egoist
Who would rather wallow alone
In the orange-tinted hue of twilight turned nightfall
A ray of the luster in all subtle shades,
Can I summon the force to recall
Why I hate myself
Is it not that all despise me for a purpose?
And those who are inept at reasonable loathe
Are marooned in deep shame
That they had degraded themselves for what?
For a felon? Such as myself?
Deep in such sorrow,
Deep in my self-loathe
I have encountered the truth of all fruitless self-regard
I am a narcissist, egoist, one who self-loathes
Who slashes and severs and cannot speak love

I dare not say I am one thing
For fear it might be true
Mindset is the truth in all
Bending mind can bend reality

Still, it’s known that acknowledgement
Is most necessary for fulfillment
The first step to saving the world
Is knowing that it must be

But, in agony, I wait
When should I know? Be certain?
Decide?
If at all, for whom, and why?

Do I want to know if I exist?
Perceive accurately or not at all?
Do I want to know whether he loves me
And for what, but must I know?

Seeing or perceiving
Which do I choose in my life
Happiness is all I seek
But is it fake or not

Creativity—
The force to construct or obliterate,
Yet always with the beauty of our cursed race, humanity
So cast down among the kingdom of animals
For our groundbreaking minds and fierce vision

Still in the brink in my time due
What have I done so distinct, so new
Remarkable to both praise and criticism
Invaluable to the point of ridiculous attraction

I’ve unearthed nothing!
So little in wide view,
I cannot be among the masters, the innovative, or true

In the (so unlikely to be irrelevant)
Notion where it’s viable
Would it matter in my venue?
I’d notice no sooner than a patrician,

How desperate I am,
To measure beyond measures
Unveil the rare, cherished,
Re-create the treasures

That in all my disheartenment
What would I have seen?
No sooner any creativity
In all of me.

If there is any value in anything,
Am I a fraud?
I should not exist.
There is nought I care bear to do
In order for this world to remain
Free from guilt, shame,
Morbid perdition,
A torrid display of all that is malicious—
And yet you claim you value me.
Beyond reason, purpose,
There is no explanation why—
Are you a poignant widower yearning
For blind love?
Don’t choose hope through those who need you.
Learn you value yourself.
Still you choose to say you cannot yield,
Cannot cease, can never change
I’d believe in you, I’d trust,
But above all, I want you to give in!
Can’t you apprehend?

What do we value?
If not ourselves?
What do we care for? Beyond all else?
I’ve never prior, cared to wonder of
The veil to mask our intrinsic intentions.

e. e. cummings claims the most wasted of all days is one without laughter.
Still would you concur?
With your Duchenne smile and tensed shoulders
Disappointed at the day of somber cheer and grave chuckles
Now you ask me why they suppressing their evident sadness
I want to swoop in, to shine until my death
Oh don’t ridicule me
You know in some ways you envy me,
Even if you still don’t understand me
I promise you in time…
Oh I can’t tell you it can only get better
Life starts not by asking “When?” No…
But at the moment of the second you choose to take it on

Are you ever near the midpoint of a dark, bleak day?
When nothing at all seems to welcome your stay?
When inconveniences overwhelm and obliterate
So you can’t lie and contemplate without
Another hindrance to dim the clouds

But at that fixed point in conditional fatalism
I know that though I was bound to live through distress in its drift
I am being called to call my power and foray
Against the angst, the dark, the grief
Here I bring the day to its end

A new day dawns! In the late of the day,
In my quaking, in my gloom
In everything thing I’ve brawl against to counter monotony and grow
In depression lost, passed, and away
At this time I dawn a fine new day.

Steadily, she approaches me, hands bound behind her back, observing and forming judgements, discerning our essence, or lack. Does she know? Wait! What would she know? I've nothing to hide, nothing to show! Could it be she's a clairvoyant? In their daunting, cryptic ways? Is she a mystic a gypsy? Does she know of all our days? Can she read between--beyond the surface? Seeking through obscurity? Can she tell who are the martyrs? The traitors and betrayed? Does she know of all the secrets in the diamond dusk of age? Or can she read through the stories of the world, page by page? Alas, as she stands there, confusedly staring into my face's voids, I cannot help but wonder, who has sanity, and who's devoid...

Hey, don't tell me I have low self esteem because I point out my flaws of self-importance and vanity. I'm just being self-aware. You don't know me.

Is it just I who muses late?
Into the veil of the night?
The laconicism is crisp of darkness
Black and cold, menace foretold?

Am I the only one
In the whole of humanity?
Who cannot cease to wonder of
The thoughts of worthlessness

That my every trivial thought
Is a waste of lives that fought
To come into the world
To breathe and dance and rot,

In the deathly tempo of time
Reminder of lives gone by
In philosophical demise
My trouble helps not anything...

Still I lie here, heaving through,
I cannot finish this song for you.
That would be misleading, to falsify
That my life showed an inkling of purpose—

*Of anymore than just a cry.

The girl who won’t say a word
The antisocial and introvert
That one who does nought but lurk.

Why is she with us?
Why is she here?
Let’s get rid of
The ill-acting girl.

But she, likewise, can smite like you,
She, too, can strike you and you,
She is not simple
She is not dumb
Watch out,
She might even
Cut you up, ****.

I’m so sorry, it was me
I hadn’t meant to do it.
I tried the goal but couldn’t.
The purpose, I went through it.
I want to strike them,
Wanted to smite
But my will simply just wouldn’t.

For who, then, will love
If not myself
Who will care
For more than himself
I’ll try and I’ll do it
I’ll break through and win it
I’ll care for the masses
That once left me smitten.

There was a time that I
Would laugh at the word
Known as the curse
Of the world—
Humanity

Destructors,
Murderers,
Abominations

Heedless,
­Reckless,
Unspeakable

Without any doubt
In grandeur
Thoughts of themselves
Among artists—

Animals,
Innocents,
Irreproachable

Here for but
Love and safety
Nothing more

Humans—
Dreadful,
To the core

They have emotions of greater capacity
Empathy beyond explainable magnitude
Yet with humanity are neglected
In the case of convenient
Vile manipulation

Here I’ll ponder thoughts in nostalgic regret
Why give staggering, mighty, beauteous emotions
To only those who misrepresent
This bestowal of divinity

Rhythmic chants
And all the dances
Can’t summon hope in our hearts

This is the poem about itself
In a futile attempt at meta cognition
Why would a poem detest its own self?
Why bother discerning purpose beyond all else

Why do I consider myself an anathema
When others behold and perceive me as beautiful
I'm devoid of a body to do anything dutiful
Nothing prepossessing, not even a cuticle

For what, after all, what role do I play
In a convulsive storm of life each grim day
Bleak—the subtlety of shame, agony of dull pain
Haunting me! What less may I speak

I constantly ponder my creator's reason
For penning me in that malevolent season
Was I evoked by boredom or pain?
My consistency only denotes dismay.

This is the poem about itself
Ruminating the hell of all hells
A poem of darkness, perplexity too
What is my meaning, why?—I now ask you

Trepidation deluges my pneuma in its state
How did I ever ebb this far?
It’s like I never sensed accomplishment
My reason? Such frailty in making.
I can’t ever invent an inkling of a use!
But in the case that I could, here I’ll be
Faltering into a trance
Of conventional panic, but dreadful still,
Dull pain in a rush,
As I know I lost my love,
I’ve never accomplished anything
Because I’ve never had the courage to

When is suicide romanic?
Tragic?
Appalling?
These questions bear their wait
In the back of my spinning mind
Here I squeeze the grip of a butcher’s knife,
Not in the moonlight, but the ever-graying sky

When no ears can hear the reverberating echo
From your cries in the lies where you lost yourself so deeply
When no one is willing to think of you
For fear of ruining their day,
Then is it perfectly unselfish to at upon unendurable pain

In the blush of the night
And the rolling, roaring peal of thunder
The dark clouds express the torment
Far better than my pathetic cries for condolence
Yes, I’m cherishing my thoughtful misery
As if it were unalike any other
But I know it will end so quickly
If I’d just jump the roof, ****** the dagger

With the unbelievable, deafening, so blinding silence
I know that nothing can lance the quiet
With my towel in hand
My last plunge in soon to come
In the endless depths
Of sorrow’s irrevocable ocean

I think poetry is for the dependent
Those who can't strive a day without
Constant writing, perpetual recording, meticulous brushstrokes
On the painting of a vibrant story
Told through heavy language or light yet elegant babble

Or perhaps it's truly for the lost
Those lacerated and devastated
By life's inevitable nature,
The deviously maleficent,
Or even their own bewildered selves.

Still, I look back
At the days of unbecoming
Horrible ignorance and unprecedented knowledge
Proverbial wisdom and undiscerning youthfulness...
When life was a default wonder.

Poetry had not been my guide
Without a pillar I trudged on.
Yet! What a horrific period of life!
Oh, if only then I had the mystical treasure
Of which I certainly possess now

I think poetry is for all who appreciate it--
If not, then those who take from it,
The insecure, shameful, resentful, narcissistic, far off, logical, illogical, confounded, missing, gothic, dying, feral, lonely, creative, incapable, hopeful, and dead
It's our universal language
In times of hope or death

I never did learn to meditate.
I couldn't clear the mind of cluttered thoughts.
Dark, disturbing, anxious, irritating--
They know no boundaries...
What? You're trying to calm your mind
Of earthy thoughts, temporal things,
Ha! I'll be certain you can't.
And you heave and shudder and pant
I tend to squirm from the sound and blinking lights
Oh heavens--
Why can't I reach you?
You failed. You lost. You're in trouble. You're worthless.
You're soon to die--
And on and on, the voices pry
If I can meditate, I'll clear my mind
Unlock my creative potential
Solve the problems that otherwise have me wish to die
But yet, in the seeking
Of steady thoughts, insight, removal left
I've only acquired
Dark thoughts inspired...
By jostled calm,
Failed meditation.

Is this what it feels like to live an empty life?

When I do cry, while quite a lot
What is the causing agent?
My previous failures,
Uttered with intense shame
My current state,
So dry by everything in its name?
My hopeless future,
A century of pain...

Oftentimes we can be inanimate as an insentient being,
If not, then lost, torn, or broken,
Drifting off into a minimally-conscious stupor,
Responding only the the most prominent of stimuli,
Quite frankly, most of the time, we aren’t really alive.

And this--this is condemnable!
This is a pleasureless trick!
The human mind has incredible potential,
Yet it's hardly active,
And essentially quite thick

Still, such is forgivable
For when we originate the formidable,
Dreams come true,
Aspirations brought to place
Life is brought to life through inspiration!

Have you never experienced some urges?
Strong desires that can never be explained?
They rain down,
As a blessing,
Better use them--
They're quite shifting,
For the love of yourself and your species:
Respond to compulsions of ingenuity!

Out of all indecipherable anomalies,
Creativity is by far the strangest.
Yet, strange is commensurate to lovely,
If put into practice,
Creativity is quite comely.

Some might say said compulsions are
Granted by the influence of divine beings,
Yet I believe they manifest from the divinity IN us,

I could grant a rant,
An oration,
Or a panegyric about compulsions
But only under the circumstance
Of such an aforementioned trance

Oh Life!
Such compulsions are
The love of me!
My pillar of strength,
My foundation of truth,
Mainstay and
My hope!
My perceived ESSENCE

The typical person—
Strives to become better and good
Will always see that they have some advantage in the matter
Enjoys art, in some form (the species-specific expression of humanity)
Seeks comfort, and pleasure in its way,
Seeks love, a bare necessity for flourishing survival
Gives love, by instinct, causation, or personal values
Would give much to have the answers to everything and all
Still, in the exhaustion of panic unearthed,
Constricted chest muscles, proverbial blanching ache
And anguishing doubt
Just them same—
We will only partake
In beliefs without pain

I always liked to be optimistic in my fiction writing. My characters of course would face all the problems of the world, but never alone. They always had a friend or someone they could lean on. They never knew the sharp, cutting pain of what it means to be truly alone.
I can't read it when I'm lonely. Or ever, really. It stings to know I'll never have what I've always dreamed of.

It's the query of these days—
Why would I cherish them?
Discerningly hear, comprehend their words
Ask of their lives, speak of their day
Wonder at all why they can't seem to do them same
Why would I cherish them?
They've never cherished me.
Not once queried why I must
Sit alone, in dry, loud silence
So humbling to deafening
I cannot attempt to understand.
But I've never pondered them
Never approached them,
Never my intention
Desperation alive in aforementioned silence...
Perhaps that's the answer, the end, the solution.
Another, one more question—
Do I want to cherish them?
Or for them to cherish me?

To rove and roam across the depths of excursions bearing ingenuity
I pose here now, alert amongst the globetrotters
Where? What judgement do I have to say,
I’m just a pillager, plundering the strange earth of which I came,
Uncertain of my own actions and subsequent consequences,
Though I am certain my little milieu of great proportions
Can thrive to inconceivable measures without myself
And the reason? I’m certain there’s one,
For as much as I endeavor,
Peradventure I am weakened,
As hard and with as much force
I use, beyond quantifiable measures
Ask me now! Why I can’t say,
Though I’ll attempt, and brace dismay
I’ll strive to the utmost,
Bear the encumbrance,
Endure the gauntlet,
Even so—I can never form meaning with my words.

All I can recall from my
Treasured years of lonesome youth
Are broken pieces from scattered memories
Horrifying battles from paralyzing trials
Harrowing episodes from despair to joy and back again
With the aide of who(m)?
My shallow relationships,
Who came by from time to time
And when I showed my disapproval
They liked to forget of my consciousness and aspirations
And perhaps for convenience as well as comfort
The null friendships were expired tranquilly
(Though never inherently)
Still it’s perfidious to imply I was pure benevolence
The loneliness amassed till I acted upon whim only
Catering my impulsive nature
And ill-treating whoever dared lie in my way,
I think that as grown people we are monstrous as our young and ignorant progeny,
Yet the children of our race
Are not yet enlightened
To fraudulent, despicable lies
Intended to preserve the worst—
All of us.

The fall might pour into the river,
Water at the bank in its length,
Yet whatever fine trouble arouses
Don’t ever ask why, through it all

My loved ones, they never showed care in the dark
Much like my colleagues to me,
Like a tree in the rain,
I hold out in such vain
Because I never question nature or its reasons

The tenor of my time,
In all our ambience—
Bear in mind,
Bear in time—
Please!
Don’t ever ask why.

I could recite the lies that I cunningly crafted in dolor
Speak of all iniquities that none have ever acted,
Not upon me, no, this creature in not worth the effort, the time
Why don't I mope and wither and lie

The novelty of clinical, irremediable sadness
Induces but a fellowship of loving, caring madness
Still not accepting, I reduce the waiting kind
Why don’t I recoil and shiver and cry

Perhaps now, in my profusion of bellows
I opine that I’ll dance in the tenor of a trance,
I’ll sashay within the shade of the treasured tree of woe
And there I’ll make certain,

Of this much I have destined,
Among the shadows beaming still,
In a moment’s testing cry
I will tremble and quiver and die...

I'm not afraid of you.
Yes, you make me shiver,
Shutter and pale too,
Cringe under your darkly gaze
But by instinct, we all do.

You make my tear ducts swell and burst,
My chest heave rapidly
My heart may try to skip a beat
Hands fade like a dying cherry

But under all my loathe for you
One thing, steadfast,
Will always stand true.
You make me cry,
Blanch petrified toox
To hell will your heartless acts!
You may be beyond all scrutiny and forgiveness
Still.
I'm not afraid of you.

Gracefully, I dash through the void
The void of grassy meadows and defined, gently held flowers
By the strength of their delicate stems, their petals held only by the miracle of bounteous life
And yet, the winds a metaphor as circumstance
They toss the blameless petals out into their destruction
Torn, tattered, tempest-tossed,
Disintegrated, forever lost.
I sprinted past the aching in death,
Beyond your ultimate fear,
And in it,
The reasons behind all your actions—
Mortality.
For beauty gives you nothing—
Except your values and meaning and hope
Then sing to me, why so few seek it
It slips below their noses, beyond grasp
Don’t look at me as a fool,
I have found reason to rejoice.
As I race through pastures cloaked with beauty
I’ll question—Truly?
This is your final desire?
And with dissonance to my ultimate unwavering choice,
I’ll contemplate—for not quite a second
Then am dashing, rushing, charging into grace,
Before leaping to the finished line,
The turning point, the answer,
Source of life so it can carry on
The reason that I have this hope

Death.

People often say that the reason for art is to make this lonely world a little less so.
Summers are always lonely.
The sun gleams down in its bright, intimidating gaze
No! Don't expect me to have fun
I'm not being called to do any of the sort
I'll open the shade, and put out a rug
Just for a touch of color
But that means nothing anymore. No to me.
Not in my ever-hazing shades of dullness
All paling--impaling everything I live for
The stupid things I value
In a meaningless collage

But oh! You said I am loved.
Why don't you sample this world I give you now
And we'll see how long your selfless chivalry can trek on.

*I'm sorry.

I can hear a blood bath brewing
From here to all the land
I hear the masses weeping
Humanity, understand.

I have no hope in trying
Or yearning at the sight
Sight of joyousness amiss
When all of life seemed right

There is a darkness stirring
Upon this place called home
There is a purpose dwindling
In war of all the known

It’s so odd to think that you’ve wasted a day.
Yielded to submission,
Succumbed to the norm,
Accepted and embraced ones mediocrity—
Have we reason to be fond of hollowness?
No pride, null of shame,
And yet so full of—what?
Emptiness and void of anything,
The dim twilight we are warned against,
How hard is it to try in the least?
If failed, then one shall still progress!
The only one who’s failed
Hasn’t even tried at all,
The one who hasn’t succeeded
Has his precious recollection.
I’ll tell you,
Succeeding has no place
In *living.

There was once a time,
Bleak, desolate, and bitingly chill.
The thought of the following events
Brought upon me a voracious thrill.
As of now, my worthless life shall unfold.
I shall die in the lethal and merciless cold.

Who told you art was
By definition satisfying,
That it had to meet a certain standard
In order for it to be "good".
Let me tell you,
I once lived under that delusion,
Of constant anxiety,
Perpetual stress,
And worst of all: Conformity
Just as well,
I was the judge, the critic, detractor
I was beyond harsh, dastardly,
(Sad and pathetic)
Beyond light,
Beyond satisfied.
That is a senseless way to live.
Art is for the brave.
Those human enough to show their lives
With something as simple, as elaborate,
As indiscernible scribbles, monumental abstractions.
I tell you now,
Under no scenarios
Is it acceptable to see no good.
Under no light,
Should we not speak of the truth--
Of this fight,
Still not believe me?
Live under critical scrutiny,
Die (in metaphor only)
And return to life only when you know
That art is not only subjective--
But when perceived right,
Nearly
Inconceivable...

I never could bring myself
To cherish, to dwell old things
No matter how precious and incredible
They mean much but nothing at all
Everything--no! If not remembered
It possesses a curse so much worse than that of Satan
For rather than a dark willed essence
From worlds unknown
It's neither malicious nor ugly
No, an irresistible temptress--
I know it.
The old things are no more than
A petrifying, putrefying reminder
That in their memory falling from minds
Everthing and I, too, will be forgotten.
In a decade, a century, or eon past my time
Certainly due to life's laws
And true nature of everything essential
I'm a flighting flick in a sea
A daunted shadow beneath the surface
A face among billions passed and passed.

I remember this feeling all too well,
The sharp, encompassing bite of the cold,
The loneliness of this new day,
And the deep resent of my own self.
That was the dread of the morning.
Haha--
'Twas so close to 'mourning'
Pain you see,
Is a versatile manifestation,
Existing in a different form and shape
After every dull induction.
Shall it drone out?
Or shall it intensify in its unprecedented becoming,
Straight from the void
Of incomprehensible dark.

Is it common, is it normal,
In its ever present hurdle
To be ever, always encumbered
By awful, constraining confusion

Why can't I ever manage
To speak of what I truly mean and hope?
Why is it so very, dreadfully strenuous
To paint on paper what I saw so well in thought?

Why have I never been able to
Tell the people I love that I really do care
How much I miss them, in their lack
And how I value their precious time in my presence...

Could it be my youth?
Ever-haunting me, in my incapable immaturity
My selfishness--
So overpowering, it controls me--

But I'm fairly certain
To the point of humble shame
The true reason I can never pinpoint my intentions--
I'm a human! The bane of all biology!

Am I to wallow in taxonomic pity
Cursed with powerful, commanding emotions
But a slave to the inabilities, fear,
But most of all--confusion

Still, is that not the beauty of human feelings,
With perplexity through the inability
To pinpoint whatever we truly mean
Comes art, beauty, (still confusion, evermore).

Often in your life of days
You’ll hear them
With that speech they say—
*You are not the mistakes you’ve made; Troubles you created;
Your hope that has faded.
You’re beautiful; of that, do know.”
But here I stand, still transfixed
On the self-inflicted hurt
I couldn’t care to mend—
But why?
Needless pain, so superfluous and gratuitous,
Yet, still ceaseless, interminable—
Hopeless to change

Why are we so set on punishing ourselves
When really that defeatist inclination
Brought us pain from origination?
But who am I to say?
What have I done,
In my self-inflicted grief

Know, that if you committed the unjustifiable sin
Lost what your strong will or your whole life has brought you
Kept that one quality, so awful and deplorable
You will still be loved.

Have peace of mind,
Your cherished life has only begun

Everyday I smile,
As cheerful as can be.
The colors around are
Bright and sweet,
The faces kind and friendly.

Hahaha.
That's fake.
That's a lie.
If we read each other's minds,
We'd all have to die.

The faces at school are
Laughing,
Mocking,
Never, ever changing.
Hope is a ridiculous abstraction.

Bully,
No matter what you say,
No matter what you do,
There is nothing in the world that will
Make me respect you.

Leave me alone, classroom demon.
What have you to gain?
Let me be in peace.
Instead you must pick on me?
Tell me why's that, please.

Still, on my walk home,
Are busy people walking;
Sociable people talking,
They seem to have forgotten me
In those roles of faking and lying!

Why do I wait? Why do I do nothing?
No matter how hard I fight,
My life still stays the same.
With this dull and meaningless life,
I might as well put an end to it, right?

I am so alone.

Have you always doubted me?

I wonder if people who are clinically sane spend the better part of their lives wondering if they're not.

Hey... It’s been a while since the last time we’ve spoken. So, how have you been? I really hope you’re doing well, but—well, I suppose you could guess that’s not really the reason I contacted you. I just wanted someone to speak to. Wanted to hear your voice, to know I’m not alone. Yes, that sounds clichéd, but honestly it does apply… I can’t even decide to put some music on, because the rhythm and the intrusive noise always distracts me, but it gets way too quiet with it. I don’t know. For some reason silence sends some weird nerve impulses through my body that makes me fidget and convulse and squirm. Is there something wrong with me? Yep, I think there’s something wrong with me. Huuu—sigh. I want this day to end. I tried to go to sleep but I figured I could only stop stressing after I told someone how I feel. You were that someone. **** it! You are that someone! I… Can’t live. Not without you. You told me I meant everything to you, that you could lose everything in your life that you love and value and you still wouldn’t be bothered as long as you could be with me. And then, well, I never really felt anything remotely similar about anyone, I was weak and didn't have that capacity... So of course I just had to be an idiot and walk away from you like that. I’m so mind-blowingly stupid. I swear I didn’t even know someone could be as stupid as that. And no, I’m not going to lie and say it’s all right if you don’t forgive me, that I’ll understand—and all those hackneyed phrases because as much as I want you to be happy, I love you so much I can’t even begin to rant and gone on and on for eternity—
*I love you so much.

Wrote them all when I was fourteen >.<
Save yourself pls

No actual poetry. I can promise you that. Spare you innocence. And your brain cells