I'm a proud father.

I give birth to poems through unearthly thinking and being inside and looking out

A space for consciousness ,pen and paper to collide and conceive baby poems. and sometimes going out and learning clears you mind , through trees , air and the sky : godly art
I connect divinity to heart , sometimes poems are like **** , conceived in the most rudest way and has a strangest feeling. 

I give birth through seeing that I live routines and an uncaring society that only cares about responsibility and gives zero time to reality . But in the midst of foreign thoughts I find peace.

Poems are deceased flowers that can reach high as skyscrapers and touch water vapor and capture what's below its nature

And I still remain in the middle of gunshots writing poems.

when you look at a crowd of people,
please take notice of the girl standing quietly by the side
you will see her smiling as the others are having fun

if you look closely enough
you will see the sadness reflecting in her eyes,
the trembling smile that threatens to drop
but before you can catch another glimpse of her falter,
you will see that she has already regained her composure
and for a moment you might think
"my eyes are playing tricks on me"
that she is fine and happy

if you look closely enough
you might just see the truth
you might just hear all the unspoken words;
the silent plea to be understood

I am so desperately tired of not feeling good enough.
I'm tired of not making you happy to the fullest extent but honey,
I don’t even know how to make my own heart beat with joy.
I crave worthiness like it’s the blood pumping through my veins.
I want to feel pretty.
I want to think to myself “I did that well,”
but no.
That’s never what I think and it’s never what I feel.

I work my body until I’m sweaty and dizzy
but I still don’t like what I see in the mirror.
I hold off on food because I think a few less calories may just do what I want them to do.
I work my mind until I can no longer sleep because there are no cracks for calm to fit in.
I hint to you that things aren’t okay because I want you to tell me that I,
me as I am,
am good enough,
but you just do not understand that.

So here I am, left crying into a pillow until my throat is too hoarse to talk
and my teeth won’t stop chattering
and my hands won’t stop shaking.
And eventually, if I can, I take a blade to the person I hate.
I punish my tormentor until she can no longer stand.
And then I make her look in the mirror so that the cycle can start all over again.

Please show me that I'm precious so that I can look at a blade without craving its touch.
Show me you love me as I am so that I can stand tall and not hide a thing.
Show me I am worthy so it won’t start all over again.

Teach me how to love myself so I can love you without abandon.

For the group that is notoriously almost synonymous with
lost or troubled.
For my people-
the poets and the lost.

For my friends who can’t seem to speak with
eloquence,
yet pour out their soul on paper,
who spell out their heart in ink.

For anyone who uses a pen as their medium
and words as their art form.
For those whose blood turns to ink
or words on a bright screen piercing through the dark.

For those whose eyes glaze over as their minds furiously enact a story
or piece together just the right phrasing.

For those that are only okay and constantly exhausted.
For those that mutter, “I don’t think I can,”
or “I’m just tired.”
For those with a firm grip on insanity and caffeine.
For those who make plans but rarely follow through.

For those who too often hear,
“Stop worrying,”
“It’ll be okay,”
and “I don’t know how to help.”
Or “You have to let it go,”
“Just go with it,”
and “It doesn’t matter.”

For those with tired eyes, blank faces, and rare, genuine smiles.
For frazzled insomniacs or narcoleptics.
For those who laugh too loud but often stay silent.

For those huddled in blankets in bedrooms,
in corners observing the outside world.
For those who love small settings
and avoid large gatherings like the plague.

For the worriers and the wanderers seeking to find themselves
in a perfect combination
of letters.

For the groups that seem to go together
like a typewriter and frustration;
or a pen and paper.

For my people-
the poets and the lost.


~SES

He doesn’t understand how broken I was.
How I wanted to be somewhere else,
anywhere else.
How I wanted to be someone else,
anyone else.
How I wanted to sleep endlessly because only while being unconscious were things okay.
How I wanted nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
I didn’t even want to be okay.
I just wanted it to be over.

Well, that’s a lie.
I wanted something.
I wanted everyone else to be okay.
I wanted to take away their pain and watch them flourish.
I was torn between thinking it was selfish to leave because someone might miss me
(a remote chance at best though)
and thinking it was selfish to stay and force them to watch me die a little every day.

Everything was torn and fractured and incomprehensible.
I was a vase shattered into tiny pieces and I couldn’t bear to have anyone cut their feet on my rough edges.
What I didn’t realize was that maneuvering around my broken pieces was just as difficult,
just as exhausting.

So I’m trying a little bit harder now.
No;
that’s a lie too.
I’m trying harder than I ever have.
I’m trying to show him what needs to be shown-
the dark pictures that stalk me in my dreams.
I'm trying to voice what needs to be uttered-
the twisted thoughts that haunt my waking hours.
Oh, my perfectly imperfect love,
I am trying.
And I think,
I think I am growing to be so drastically
better
but I am terrified,
almost to the point of paralysis,
to fall again.