i know just what my eyes look like and i can't even see myself
hell i can't even picture myself
i'm lost in my own wide eyed yet heavy lidded glare

hah how long till you dump me
i;m yours and only yours, right
wrong, left
hah kidding, unconditional, unsurpassed
wait what
l

did you ever wake up and think, i'm going to paint my lips today, i want to sugarcoat them x

God why are you always in the forefront of my mind. you're so temporary but you just appear to be everything. I want you, sexually, of course. I'm lax with commitment and just a little apprehensive of it since i get bored easily. i want you to be the one. i only catch glimpses of you but this time that's not my only indulgence or limit, i now have a means of communication with you and it's so frustrating. i'll miss you when your gone, i miss you, i miss you every day ugh to be continued

poems are raw fragments of thoughts or emotion, a chance to indulge in something as frivolous as acknowledging the truth. A poem is singular, to you and only you, because only you matter, to you

you know, this is something that has really...let's say 'dawned' on me. It may seem obvious but it's something that is practiced with such fluency. The facades we all project, such ease and such guilt-free fun. It's like a sweet lie that you can run alongside in sunny fields with. it's satisfying,highly.
we put on these facades so easily and all it takes is small but effective 'entrances' into your so called life. a little glimpse here and there never did anyone any harm, i mean it's not like it's real.
it's trickery, carried out by the every-man. i'm not who you think i am and you're not who i think you are. we are not multifaceted, we are plain, stripped and devoid of this

what do we all really want? do we know? is it the unknown? is it familiar to strangers or loved ones and just unbeknownst to us?
an odd thought...well not really but you know
I hold myself in my own self proclaimed aura of power by holding my secrets close to my heart and letting others know, that i know, just exactly what i want. I mean i'm sure that's what we associate with power, right? who wants or even needs someone who has no singular recollection of controlling what the mind sporadically desires. I know what i want but that cancels itself out and leaves me thinking in a disjointed manner, just what do i want? and stemming off that, why? and stemming off that how? and stemming off that, does this ever stop?
careful calculation, artistic determination, a 'so called' higher thought process, and lastly, an urge or a will. the ingredients to creation,success and maybe self fulfillment are so substandard, the faux, as I once lovingly called it. The faux, a careful concealment and fluorescent indicator to all around us. It's absolute ******* but so much fun