how much of who you are is ego?
how much is self-actualization?
and how much does answering these questions
help or hurt one or the other?

I would hold a vase I made in high school art and wonder why I could never fill it to the top. I never understood what people filled them with anyway.

I would go to both my parents graves and ask them to forgive me even though I never forgave myself.

I would take the time to write out every disgusting and broken part of me and indulge in the fact that I am truthfully human.

I would paint stories on my skin in crayon, the kind that get turned into lessons and read to small children.

I would thank Mother Earth for letting me **** the life out of her until neither of us could bear it.

I would cry once for the children who only know what it's like to breathe underwater.

And I would take a yellow rose, plucking every last petal and name each one of them a different country I would visit; in another life, on another shore.

do i matter enough for my death to be an art piece?
will i just be one of 3,600?
what matters more, life or death?

cant have one without the other
like a child and a mother
so **** yourself just like your brother
and give thanks for one another

bring me some ******* clarity
                                                      do i matter?
                                                         ­                    or was i just inspiration
for a poem about how many boys loved and lost you?

                                     DO I EVEN ******* MATTER?!

im lost with no foundation
and im drowning on my own two feet
if its any consolation
it makes it really hard to breathe
i cant even think of you
without it bringing back the pain
of when i mattered
and the drugs
and i
just mingled in your brain

i called you in california
talked until the sun came up
and now your life is figured out
it feels our past is all made up

until i really meet you, friend
i guess i'll never truly know
was i an object of amusement
or the pain that helped you grow?

"So I'll probably **** myself,"
I said to you,
"But not until I'm 21 and can stain my lips red
And drink for real
And get so drunk I'll dance right off a cliff.
The rocks at the bottom will hug me so tight I'll split right open.
And then I'll never be able to hide any of it
It'll all be there for you to see.
Bleeding out."
You looked at me and all you said was
"Okay."

I don't know the world just seems to be spinning to fast
Losing touch as time lose sense of future present or past
A child stood before a mirror filled with aspiration
A highschooler laid in bed his head filled by frustration
As he watches years of studying steadily fall apart
Trying to piece it together with nowhere to stary
An adult now looking back through the passage of time
struggling to find the answer to "Were those dreams mine?"

i've never met a
poet who wasn't
pretentious
not that they're that way
all the time and not
that it's a bad thing.

but it's expected for
anyone with a mind loud
enough to put words together
in an artistic manner and
assume that others
actually want to read them.

i've never met a
poet who wasn't
pretentious
even if only on paper.

You'll never be able to love someone so much that they'll love you back. You can't love someone into loving you.