Its not you
Its me
That was cliche
Don't you agree?

It hurts me more
that I caused you pain
by rejecting everything you do
You've got nothing to gain

I don't like you
Not the way you do
So walk away
What I say is true

I don't want to upset you
You have to understand
This is better than false hope
I know this isn't what you have planned

I am not the one for you
We are not meant to be
Don't make this difficult
Just stop fighting for me

Stop trying to convince me
I don't feel the same way
Just let me go
We aren't close friends anyway

Please stop
You're hurting yourself more
Its all wishful thinking
I'm not the person you should adore

I'm sorry
That's all I can say
I'm sorry
That it has to end this way

I was there for you
But when my time of need came
I could not find you
A lesson learned some would say
But I am not so simple

Be who you want to attract,
Before you start "searching" for the right person,
Be the right person,
Find yourself,
Be comfortable with who you are,
Find happiness within you,
If someone is the only basis of your joy,
I'm afraid,your joy might be a mirage.

I’m never sure. it’s sad. I know.
I want to be honest.
sometimes I’m too honest, honestly,
and in the wrong way. the worst way.
I want to be good. good at something
anything, really. I don’t know what.
maybe I’d be a good barista
or a good waitress. I don’t know.
sushi chef maybe? is that even
something that I’d want to do?
I hate when people say they do
“computers”. That’s not even DOING
something. That’s just a noun.
Can I say I do “books”??
Is your job too complicated to
explain to simple old me?
I need to work on being logical
with my heart. I need to start
believing in chances. I have a
poet’s eye, so why can’t I have
her ever-breaking heart? her
softasskin soul? her longing for
cold winters and sunbright lemonaid
her love of love?
I have a bitter feel of love. it’s
twisted into a harsh hatred. It’s
eaten by doubt. It doesn’t smile,
it blushes, it hides. I need to
re-coax love into existence.
so that when it opens up, it
recreates the boundaries
of safety that I so crave.
I want to be the fearless poet
that Frost examines in his woods
I want the flawed ***-ful poet
that Bukowski loves to paint
I want the darkest raven-breasted poet
that Poe tearfully wrote
or I want to be my own poet,
lost in thick dusty second-hand
bookstores, full of soggy stories
too heavy sometimes
to re-tell.