*******, and *******. **** me? ohhh you wanna say ******* to me? Well here's a ******* for you found this **** in my pocket, got it half price at target that is why I bought it. Who knew it would come in handy.
Our relationship is like a deviated septum because one side is always getting more than the other and if you didn't realize, you're the deviated side because no matter how hard I ******* try to give you the oxygen your heart desires, you can't open up to it. You sit and block almost all of yourself off to the world and even off to me and I've only known parts of you. A small wind casting through an open field, this is how I feel. I am the tumbleweed in every boring movie scene, gliding by just so someone will notice me, but essential to essence nonetheless. So **** me right? Well frankly, I'm tired of all this ******* because none of it consists of love making, because I don't actually know how to make love but I sure know how to ****. And I find myself writing the same lyrics as Wale, I think this is what rock bottom feels like.. Because :p I :P find :p myself :p more :p content :p with :p being alone than I ever ******* have with someone else. Always stepping on toes or picking up the pieces and it's cool if you're parents are still together and you've seen love like that your whole entire life, but me? I haven't, **** I wish my parents weren't together maybe then I would be able to leave my prison cell of a room. I have seen love ripped from the hinges and thrown to the wind- like ******* Owen Wilson's nose type love. I grew up with that ****, but I still love harder than I ever have but you can't tell me that you do the same because this fuckery has been my whole entire life, so I have adjusted.
I have dabbled in alcoholism, and maybe a little drug abuse, but see these apples don't fall far from the tree and misery seems to be the best currency.
So who the **** am I?

I have long awaited the return of who I was and as this pill slips between my lips and down my esophagus, I am reminded that everything is temporary. The rage within me boils to the surface until every waking moment is spent thinking about my demise and I was never good with being on time. Either too early or too late. I always procrastinate the things most important and the trouble with timing is, it doesn't exist. So why spend life hanging on the edge of the lips you'll never get to kiss. Why exist in someone else's world only to be thrown from the grips of it. The years spent sulking in solitude taught me more things about life and myself than any amount of schooling, or reading rainbow ever could. The things I've seen before my eyes reminded me that being temporary in this every-changing life is probably the best thing for us all, because these things we endure can wear us out more than the time we spend in our cars or on our phones and I'm having trouble adjusting to daylight, because everything I ever see anymore is artificial and obsolete, but so are we. Every person you love, everything you touch will all eventually turn cold and frigid and into something you will never see again, we all die in the end. So take the hands that hold on to your hopes and whisk them into the same categories as your wants and your needs and be everything you've ever wanted yourself to be because everything is temporary. The trouble with timing is we don't have enough of it. The trouble with timing is these hands on the clock move every 86400 seconds, 12 days a week, for 165 days a year- so that's 525949 minutes. So we spend 86400 seconds thinking about the other 1440 minutes of tomorrow. So don't ******* waste it. The trouble with timing is the depression that follows, the moments we waste thinking about the things we can't control or the future we wish we could have. The minutes spent trying to talk ourselves out of anxiety attacks when we know **** well that never works. We don't have much in our lives that makes everything okay, all we really have is these imaginary things we wish we could grasp within our fingertips, like time and money and hopes and dreams but all of it means nothing until you take that step forward and remind yourself that nothing is ever set in stone and there's always a tomorrow so don't spend today dwelling on it. Take your time, but don't waste it. You are a delicate place, treat yourself as such.

I can't decide anymore whether I ******* hate you, or if I love you. This internal battle is not one I'm good with because I'm still not sure what love even feels like anymore. Each day you treat me differently, so I'm stuck here on the edge, waiting for the clock to strike me dead. I have no remorse anymore. I will do as I wish because I'm so tired of being cautious of each and every little step I take just to ensure your stability. I am difficult. I like cheesy movies, sappy sitcoms and writing poetry- all of which you one day love about me and the next, you're making me wish all my interests were the same as yours so maybe you would actually be interested in the things I say. You don't hear me sometimes, or maybe you just don't listen. I'm getting to the point where my own voice is being drown out by yours because it's all I ever hear anymore. I can't see the good that's in front of me because I keep looking back at what we were. My eyes are blinded by the tears that fall, they taste like the regret of all the things I've never said.

You took your words and with them you stitched together my lips and reminded me why my voice is so crippling. You made me realize that nothing I say to you will ever triumph over the negative things I do. The hands that reach over to hold me at night are the same ones that you used to speak the truth I think I've always known. Brutal, were your words and they shook me from the inside. You never look at what we are, you only look at what has been before. The deceit and treachery you've been apart of has now been taken out on me. I shouldn't have to pay for others mistakes. I start to wonder if the reason for your harsh judgment is because you hate yourself more than you think you do. But I hate myself too and all I want is to love everyone I see equally, so what does that mean for you? The person I knew has now become a mere shadow in the faded distance and I can't put into words anymore how yours remind me why I'm starting to speak less. The sad fact is I've never cared for someone so much and I've never had someone I care so much about make me feel the way I do about myself. The moment you came into my life I felt beautiful and soon that beauty slowly faded. I started to wonder why I was wilting and dying slowly and then I realized there's no sun where I am and the source of nutrients are scarce. The energy I have left has been used to keep me alive and I can't be your burden anymore. These words are my sarcophagus and I hope you enjoy the funeral because this eulogy had ended.

Everything about me is unorganized and messy,
like your favorite pasta dish, or romance novel-
There are layers to who I have become
and even more layers to who I was.
I can't help all my poems sound the same,
or maybe that's a good thing
because when the pain drowns me
in the same mistakes I've made repeatedly
I remember that I am yin and I am yang
all in the same hand.
There is no sign on my star-crossed heart
that says I can't stay exactly the same
there is no roadmap inside my dark defeatist mind
that says I can't change who I am everyday.
So let me be dynamic-
and never the friction between your sheets
because I will never be static.
I am a stone wall with every sad thing you've ever witnessed.
I am a garden full with every joyful experience-
The pessimistic paradox and the optimistic oxymoron
is what I have become and I'm still comprehending how that can be.
I have yet to find myself fully, but I know who I am
these words become my compass
and I wish I could just go north
but this galaxy that is within
wants so much more-
I will discover myself again.

Some days I can't think straight,
these words in my mind twist and they turn
until I'm trying to discover the bottom line.
Some days I can't think straight
and some days I think too much-
the words I speak hang on the edge of my tongue
awaiting someone to understand the intensity
of this overwhelming desire to speak my secrets.
Would you listen?
Listen as I sing from the rooftops my tragedy
and mask the brick walls
with the graffiti of my cloak-and-dagger heart.
This isn't closure, it never was for me.
The nights I spent alone and sobbing
have taught me more things
than any amount of advice can.
I have yet to be silenced,
because these words I write
and these poems I seek out
are the undisclosed reason for being.
I may have wanted to die many times
but there's a reason none of my poems rhyme
and it's because there's no rhyme or no reason to them.
They are stream of conscious
they are hanging on every word
until I have no more left in my obsolete mind.
Please don't test me.
I will be fine-
because I always end up that way.
One Poem At A Time.

The darkness engulfs me and the pain ensues. I have felt the malevolence of larger hands wrapped around my throat. I have felt the arch of your back on top of me turn into something that reminds me of a cataclysmic time. My eyes go dark and nothing seems familiar anymore. The incessant reminder of what was is something I can't run away from. The depths of my mind go farther and more undiscovered than that of the ocean floor. But the waves keeps crashing and pulling me, turning me into a tsunami of these dark uncharted memories. The only thing that holds me back is the memory of being held down and stripped of any control I had over my life. I cannot help these hands I hold remind me of stone sometimes, I can no longer hide these broken parts of myself. Naivety was my biggest downfall at a young age and I couldn't stop the fact that something so sacred was ripped from my fingertips and thrown to the floor as I watched in despair, thinking this is how it was supposed to be. Now the fog has lifted from my mind and these eyes can see clearly once again. Some time after, I realized I would never trust another man. Not when that innocence I had left was turned into these nights I spend crying on the bathroom floor clenching a bottle of Vicodin ready to lift each and every pill to my lips... it will no longer control me like this. These hands will no longer feel the stings of deceit.  This broken heart is being rebuilt, one fragile piece at a time. My sexuality is not to be toyed with and although that part of myself was stolen from me I am trying my best to get it back again. These hands are still grasping the idea of sanity , frail and bruised as they may be, I'm still holding out for something.