i'm a mess inside and out
i'm searching for serendipity
but all i have left is drenched emotions and crumpled up papers on my floor filled with ink blots and scribbles
my eyes burn from tears
my heart aches
i shake as i pour myself another drink of whatever is left in the cabinet
i down it like the 2 tablespoons of medicine my mother used to make me take when my stomach hurt
but right now, everything hurts
they say everyone needs to feel pain
it reminds us we're alive
but if being alive is the equivalent to feeling the sharp knife in my heart over and over again
i might as well be dead

Oh sweet temptation,
Do not be a fool,
The pills are paradise,
Payment is cruel,

Oh how I crave you,
All your seduction and sedative,
Take me to heaven's gates,
My failures have been repetitive,

i wrote my life in pen
mistakes can't be changed
and regrets that surround me
weren't always regrets
because i did love you once
and died at your touch
but now i die everyday
thinking of what you used to say

no matter what they say
or what they do
ill never find anyone
to compare
to you

but am i really alone?
I've got ghouls, and monsters, and demons
bottled up in me
and when everyones gone
they come out
and haunt me
they taunt the dark night
searching for anything
anyone
everything
to be with
cause they are tired of being alone
and alone is what they will always be

I'm studying real poets.

Shelley, Sandburg,
Frost, and Wordsworth.
Coleridge, Blake,
and William Butler Yeats.

Do you know why they're
considered real poets?

Because they made art,
not hashtag trends.
Wrote from Experience
with black quill pens.
Sure, they got high,
but wrote on instinct.
And The Road Not Taken doesn't
mean what you think.
They wrote about about life
and the world that they heard,
not ******* in the margins
of Microsoft Word.