she was nothing but a silhouette.

her life once vivid- colored by dream and ambition has been blackened by a past too present still.

knocking on the doors of high rises and hotel rooms, carrying her treasured heels into the vapid mist of a sleeping city.

her figure even out of the mist is the only thing to make out still.

emptiness travels in her bones and loneliness is a dear friend.

by rare occurrence of special characters, she becomes illuminated and her appearance is said to be of an angel.

these special characters, men with their reassuring smiles, and kodak promises- and their shortcomings of wives, flirtings and lies make her short-lived sparkle dim.

she allows disappointment to counsel her and guide her deeper into shadow.

the silhouette is the tragic girl now

not capable of finishing anything

take my last poem.

about an angsty girl supposed to

be a young functioning adult now

and isnt capable of having dreams.

this was about me yet

yet i still couldnt add in the bits

about where i really chose

my first kiss to be with someone i didnt

even moderately enjoy as a person

(though he was good physically)

so love had nowhere

to go but up.

or how whenever the young girl partakes in

drinking with strangers for once in her ******* life

she can lock herself in the closet

smile

and feel absolutely nothing

please do,
i'm practically begging you
walk through the cafe front door
that one i apparently broke your heart in.
here i still sit
writhing and writing
drinking milky hearth to calm my shaky nerves.
i'll act like i don't see you
and maybe i'll be happy
you best not sit next to me. ******* it
because the only thing i will formulate in words is the sentenve
"I told you so."
going back once again to my writing and writhing
while my ego feeds off of your love lusting stare.

Does this make me look
Deeper, more intellectual
Perhaps I'm a Sylvia Plath
Poems emerging out of me due
To the pigsty of a brain I've obtained
Or even I'm Emily Dickinson
I'll lock these god forsaken poems up
Only to be discovered after
I have died.
Having once again the chance to
Become immortal, post mortem
All due to the poems I thought
Were ****.
I'll just keep writing.
I won't write for the sake of calling
Myself a Writer
But because I can forever exist, to forever be.
All of the personal pronouns constantly
Utilized in these writings evoke a
Feeling of self-hatred out of
My own narcissism,
What else did Emily Dickinson accomplish
That was impressive, before dying?
Simply she died, writing with until her old wrinkled hands
gave out
the pen fell.

i once had a friend

we would talk philosophy and things of deep matter

it never felt depressing talking of old ways

invigorating.

i remember in between these conversations we would draw together and laugh at how horrible we both were.

you took my arm once and we went around to look at chalk art.

i looked at you for a moment and the next you were gone.

old souls intertwined.

we were perfect.

i was nervous for what could be of us.

and you are gone.

forced out of my own hand

twisted bent into a new identity one you can make out of a new location.

i never said goodbye.

i couldnt.