I ask myself the same question each day.
Am I happy?
The answer is always no.
How can I change it?
I don't know.
I never know.
I will never know.

I want to know you.
I want to know the person behind the writing.
I want to know the mind that expresses so vividly and beautifully.
I want to know you as more than just your poetry.
I want to know you for you and not the assumptions I can make.
I want to know you as the beautiful soul you are.

With the last gasp of my last breath,
I will gladly greet and welcome death.
Whether by an accident, anothers hands or my own,
I will follow him to the place I'll call home.
No fire or brimstone nor angels there,
just those full of fear, bewilderment and despair.
The afterlife is in the eye of the beholder,
but he you admire will place his hand on your shoulder.
He'll lead you to your new domain,
the place you go when you are slain.

Who ever said poetry had to rhyme?
To rhyme the divine is a crime.
Why change the perfect form of expression
with your attempt at creative oppression?
Irony? Sarcasm? Satire? Who will ever know?
A concluding line,  let's forgo.

I wish to stare into the abyss and never break sight.
To join it in eternal embrace.
To jump in and feel my soul drift away.
I wish to become one with the darkness.

I'll spend my birthday alone.
How depressing and common now.

For two years hands were held and lips were pressed together.
For two years we held hands and held eachothers hearts.
For two years I was there for you every hour of the day and night.
For two years we were best friends, boyfriends, inseparable.
For two years all I gave you was love.
For two years all you did was play me and sleep with others behind my back.
For two years I wasted my time loving someone who was incapable of loving me.