I first started writing because I wanted someone to notice me. Because I wanted to make people feel shivers down their spine when they found one of my poems engraved into a metallic bathroom stall or a wooden bench.

I then wrote because I wanted to feel something myself, in the form of someone else’s “fake” story. Because when things aren’t your problem, it tends to become less worrisome and more forgettable.

I then started to write because I wanted to show the world, who you were. Because to me, when I wrote you, peoples eyes turned and their ears widened. You were like the phenomena I never knew people wanted to hear.

That’s when my writing had died. When I had handed you out to the world, for attention and embrace, when you were not theirs to be seen. I wrote for you, and nothing else.

You then had the audacity to tell me, my writing was too “complex” and it wasn’t something you were “interested in”.

That was when I had died.

Because my poetry was dead, the muse didn’t care.

She was only a child, the summer of '15
she had the world on a string, her heart
so enclosed in a boys hands, she could never
touch it.
She had dreams, flailing around at the seams,
when it was time to follow a new endeavor
her string seemed to tear, along the middle.

She had insecurities, tall enough to
reach out and choke her dead.
She had no idea,
her heart would have scurried at the first
sight of lust,
and forget the first
one she had.

She had insecurities, enough to crack her
porcelain skin.
She showed them off, like a new
depressing outfit, like a filthy rag.
But when she did, you told her,
"You're a *****".

She had insecurities, enough to **** you off.
Luckily, enough to **** her off too.

My insecurities aren't something
to determine my charisma by,
try again.