I'm not a poet
I shouldn't claim the like
Because a poet would know more
About struggle and strife
While I myself lay my head on a bed
Some poets stay up all night
Driving home their nails
Into the coffin of conviction
How dare I say I'm impaled.
While others wrote beautifully on social issues or on love
I sit and stare at the wall
I churn out writings on things such as white struggles and heartache
I'll write about the same boy over and over again with a different ad lib.
I'll write about voices in minds I can't reach or begin to comprehend
So tell me how I'm a poet, again?
Because I can write a line and hit an enter key
I somehow think I'm a cool *** thing.
Nah man, I'm not a poet
I'm a wannabe

You never fall in love with a poet
Just his words
The way they captivate you
The way they taste like honey to ears
It's alright though
Better only one heartbreak instead of two

highways and byways
rivers and streams
molehills and mountains
hopes and dreams

cry, hopeless woman with desperate voice
fly, sweet freedom and blessed choice
love, loveless loser of selfish means
above, soulless skies are so unclean

highways and byways
rivers and streams
molehills and mountains
hopes and dreams

grieve, gentle child with much remorse
leave, grievous man without recourse
shout, silent heart with much to say
about, hordes of hollow heroes lay

highways and byways
rivers and streams
molehills and mountains
hopes and dreams

When it's a perfect pitch,
when you've sold them on the dream and it's all gone without a hitch you can reel them in, sell them short and sell them thin and they'll say,
'thank you, bless you, without you what would life be?'
and won't see the small print or the lint on the cloth, the moth only sees the flame and that's the name of the game when you're selling the dream.

I once bought a pig in a poke, the joke was on me, like the moth I could see the light and bought the pig outright, fool that I am for listening to fools, schools never teach you about the pitch, perfect or not, you've got to learn the ropes, get your hopes dashed, your dreams split open and smashed and then when the world crashes down on you, you'll know what to do and that is to pitch and perfectly,.
It works for me.

There are plenty
of emotionally
damaged
souls who'd
love to
dance upon
my grave.

May even be a few
brave enough to
do me in
themselves.

I could call most
of them
off by name.

But by
doing that
I'd be granting
them Glory.

And Glory ,
in all
of its forms
must always
be earned.

Because I cannot stop my hands from shaking
Nor the wobble in my walk
I've come to terms with my mortality.
If not for a recent understanding
Of what keeps my mind on pins.
I cannot wait until I ache
For that stomach punching pit again
Putting me out my misery.
One day soon I hope and I pray
I can look you in the eyes and turn you away
But for whatever reason you remain.
The hopelessness that my eyes portray
Simply weaken every day
Until the day someone says so
And my anxiety just goes away

I forgot I was human,
forgot days were different,
forgot sensories were enhancing,
forgot emotions added depth,

I forgot because I got caught up in it

If you ask my friends what I've become
They'll start singing song lyrics
"Tried to find you t the bottom of a bottle, laying down on the bathroom floor"
"You're gone and she's gotta stay high, all the time, to keep you off her mind"
And by God they wouldn't be wrong.
I've taken up these habits and made them my own
Creating my own personal bubble that's headed straight for hell
I'm not saying what I've become is all your fault
But you certainly contributed to my status.
My chain smoking, my drug use, my increased alcohol consumption
My need to drive dangerously fast, stepping into traffic, my laying on blacktops
To everyone I know, it's as if I'm certainly flirting with Death
And I guess its true
And I'm not taking 100% of the blame
Some of it is on you.

I think my problem arises from a chaotic childhood.
No, I'm not saying it was traumatic but
I learned at a young age that I didn't belong anywhere
And I think the problem with my relationships today
Is that I felt that being lonely so long,
And finding someone like him
who wanted me dearly
And wants me still
instilled in me a will to never be alone again.
But it seems, it comes all too natural to me.
My problem is that I want to be with someone.
I want to belong to someone.
I want to be the person that someone comes home to...
Maybe that's just my fatal flaw?
That being so alone even in a house I used to call home
No four walls feel quite right
No pair of arms reach the core of me
I guess I've made a bed and begun to live
In the halfway house of sin
Making my way to strangers beds to see which one will be strong enough to wed
But sadly that's not the point of one-night stands.
That once the deed is done we follow the path of the walk of shame
Carrying our heels and dragging our dignity down a road to what we supposedly call home.
Not all the girls along the road are hoes some are simply misguided fools.
Such as I, when I was kicked from a bed after laying by his side
I had a little too much to drink and stumbled my way home, to face the mirror which hung on my door like a veil
To face a friend with a past like mine
To tell her all just to be told I was an idiot.
It's just my flaw
That I fall for words instead of actions it will surely be my fall
For no amount of painted skin or blanketed lies will stop me from adopting another vice to add to my collection.
Drugs, alcohol, cigarettes and *** my god I've become such a mess.
The lonely girls are always easy targets.
You bribe them with drinking or drugs and a promise of a passion filled kiss to soothe the raging monster inside them,
Now you have them at your mercy.
Eventually, they go numb and forget that they are lonely.
They forget that they want to belong to someone
That they want to create a home for someone
And the four walls of different rooms become sanctuary maybe a night or two,
As this turned nomadic soul turns to her vices
And waits for the one night stand that tells her to stay