I am drowning
in a pool of my own sorrow,
and it is the worst pain--
the worst death--
that I could have ever imagined.


(d.d.b)

I am no longer sure if I wish more to be
a poet,
or a poem,
or if I even wish to be
at all.

My fault.*

All my fault.

Dear, god, it really was all my fault.

The realization--

The mere thought--

is eating me alive like a forest fire.


(d.d.b)

I cannot, for the life of me, get over it.

I cannot, no matter how hard I try, forget what happened.

It is killing me.

It is destroying me.


(d.d.b)

Sadness, you see,
is supposedly the absence of happiness.

The irony of my sadness,
is that I never felt the happiness.
Not once;
not at all.

One can argue, then
is it really sadness that I feel?
Or is it simply
my state of being?

Either way,
whatever it is,
it sincerely hurts.

(d.d.b)

I'm not very good at anything
Though I am a perfectionist
Finding myself below the best
In everything I do
I tell myself I don't need the satisfaction of Others
And that is the most substantial lie
I have ever told

SWEETHEART,

FOR SOME,
LOVE IS THE CURE.

AND

FOR SOME,
LOVE IS THE DISEASE.