The poems doesn't speak to you.
It sings, it whispers, it screams.

The poem isn't going anywhere.
It dances; glides or crawls.

The poem isn't written.
It is cried, bled or shivered onto

Paper. The poem doesn't care.
It's just there. Where it belongs.

It doesn't mind or like.
It loves, adores or despises from its

Soul. The poems isn't created.
It blesses the poet with its birth.

I can't even remember the last time
I cried,
And someone held me close,
And told me it was going to be alright.

Everyone hates me.

They think I'm the bad guy.
I'm the hater.
The negative vibe.
The one who kills.
The Devil.

They don't think I have feelings.
They think I don't care,
That I like being here.
That it doesn't **** me
To have Satan as father.

Do you think I'm proud
That he was banished from heaven?
That I like
Watching people suffer?

Death is not my specialty-
It never was.
I pray secretly
For a better life.

Helping, apparently,
Is a sin.
The smell of demise
Leaves me melancholy.

My tears
Are tattooed on my face.

These harsh words
Have been engraved onto my skin.
I have never been happy
With a sinner for a dad.

How can I pray to God,
When he is the spoken enemy?

How can I hope
When it has been crushed by all his followers?

I don't have friends-
They're all scared of me.

I have only lived to see
Fear.
No one has ever loved these red eyes.

Red from crying.
Red from hurting.
Red from a broken heart.

I can only write my ache.
But no matter how I try,
No one can relate.
Or care.

The worst kind of pain
Is the one that cannot be described.

That's me,
The indescribable agony.

Staring at you.
I think of my future.
Will you be in it,
I wonder?

I think of the negatives,
If we ended up together.
But how can I dream
Of something that is clearly impossible?

Staring at you,
I think of what you've done.
To steal my heart,
When you meant no harm.

You did many things,
Not directed to me.
But look who's falling,
Falling hard from my Love tree.