I lied.
  I'm not a truth-oholic
    Because I'm not even that honest.
  I'm just an angry drunk
    Who tells the girl who says "I love you"
      To shut up
    And the boy who says "I want to *******"
      To go away.

It has taken me nearly 19 years to accept the fact that I am stuck in this body,
a body that I have loved,
and hated.
Although,
more of the latter occurred than I would care to admit.
I'm stuck in this life,
as this person,
and I have to be okay with that.
Because not being okay with that,
doesn't leave me very many options.

I always seem to write something
In hopes that I’ll be the first person to say it.
I never am.
Someone has always said it
And said it much better than I did.

I started writing as a senior in high school.
What a terrible time to start
Because my ego got in the way
Of all the words I wanted to say.

I should have picked up another habit
Because smoking or gambling
Would have been far less
Self destructive
Than writing has been.

The first poem I ever wrote
Was about a heartbreak
I thought I had.
I wrote in hopes
That they would see it.
I don’t know if they ever did.
But that’s when I learned how not
To write a poem.

I’ve moved on since then.
Now I write about things.
Because it turns out they don’t change
People do and that’s okay.
But writing about who a person is now
Will not stop them from becoming more than your words.

That doesn’t make sense to everyone.
I’ve written poems
About people who lived life
A day behind everyone else.
Because they believed it gave them time.
But life catches up
And believe that it is the most unforgiving
******* any human will meet.

I’m now a sophomore in college.
I’ve recently decided to start a career in writing.
People always give me that look
When I tell them.
Writing doesn’t assure you of anything.
“Why write?
You could teach and live life $30,000 a year.”

This is truth.
It’s consistent, no worries.
But it’s easy.
Everything I write
Comes from a part of myself
That I have to struggle to find.
This struggle kills me
But I regenerate when the poem is finished.
And I’ve found that I’d rather **** myself a thousand times over
Than live to die once because it made life easy and hurt less.

I might never say something first.
Someone will always come before me
And I will always come before someone.
This poem is done.
And I am alive.

Why am I awake?
Allah
God
Zeus
What have you!
Why am I awake,
at this ungodly hour?
I toss
I turn
Blanket on
Blanket off
Forgot the light
Forgot a water
Always something.
Back to bed
Still awake.
Why can't I sleep?
Take a pill
Can't fall asleep
It escapes me
Take another
Wide awake
This world won't
let me sleep.
Among other things.
Again awake.
No good spot
Take another
Forget this
I can't sleep
I give up
I'll watch TV
I'll text dead air
Take another
pill or two.