That's the thing though. I don't give a flying **** about what other people think about me. I refuse to waste any more time giving pleasure to those who live to see me fail. I am well aware I am a chaotic, mentally ill, obsessed with words, etc. but at the end of the day I wouldn't live my life any other way.

the electricity posts
in my veins are all broken
and there aren't enough
electrical engineers to revive them.
the atmosphere is getting colder
and the flowers in my tongue slowly whither.
i'm running out of words to use for a the color of your eyes
so im sorry if they turn out to be like anyone else's.
the absence of the tidal waves of poetic awakening
cripples my wrist and fingers until the only way
to get me to write is to bleed.
i want to feel alive
like im a cloud swimming through
the fantastic colors of the sky.
i miss the way ink drips from my fingertips
i want to feel home again.
home with words, with poetry.
laying down on a bed of proses while a piece
sings softly in the background.
that's my hyper-reality, a kind of fantasy
i can no longer find meaning in.

Can words ever really be enough?

So picture this:
Mother's perfume
Cannabis car seats
Lover's knuckles
Best friend's scars
Saddest sunset

Watch me as I turn every word into
My grandpa, gardening
My best friend, taking a selfie
Me, worrying if you hate me
A tree, rotting in its grave
The way the world is so quiet

She says she doesn't care
She says she doesn't care that her grades are dropping
She says she doesn't care if her dad hits her
She says she doesn't care that 'he' left her
She says she doesn't care when people criticize her all the time
She says she doesn't care that she has no friends
But, I know she does
I know what she doesn't say
She tries to hide the sadness but her eyes give her away
Whether it's the crimson on her wrists or
The way in which her breathing gets heavier when I walk past her explains it all
She cares because she dances in the rain when everyone takes cover
She is a poem in a world which is still learning the alphabet.

When what is lov’d is present, love doth spring;
But being absent, love lies languishing.