I don't write like I used to and I think it's because I'm starting to hate myself

Newports
My body feigns for the nicotine,
that 30 seconds of ecstasy.  
This psychological need,
the false hope that the stress I feel
would disappear in the smoke I release that's been trapped in my chest
pressing for a way out.
But when its over its over.
Too bad life isn't like a cig.

You probably understand. Or maybe you don't, after all. Either way, it is jumping around inside me and if I don't let it out soon all my carbonation will fizz up and run over the side of my glass and I don't want to waste all that sweetness.

I want to kiss you underwater.

I want that kiss to be the only thing keeping us alive. Down there we are foreigners, aliens. Grasping, I want to feel your flesh in stark contrast to the smooth wetness all around me, like a secret.

All that life where we cannot live. Exotic, forbidden, so lovely. I am sick with love.

i remember when i was in 8th grade i wrote a really sad poem
it talked about how the bullying brought me to a numb feeling
after i wrote that poem i realized that poetry made me feel things again
whether they were good or bad
poetry helped me

but now when i write poems
i still love them just as much
its just
i want to feel numb again
i wish i could feel numb again

because most of the time i pretend i'm alright
i'm 18
I DON'T GIVE A ****
right?

no
not right
i give way too many *****
i give the most *****
i feel judged everywhere i go
on everything i wear
and everything i do

so it kind of *****
when one of the things that i've learned to love to do
turns into something that makes me cope with my emotions
and my insecurities
like no
go away
can you not with the feelings

i just want to get drunk
smoke ****
and have fun

the real world can wait
and even if it decides to go anyway

there is no way i'm dealing with it
not right now

it's just too much

loneliness does not equate to a lack of love
paths are to be followed,
not to be spoken of
when it's all over, when all is said and done
all that is left are the echoes
of all the lives you have touched

hey man,
you alright?

i got a lot on my mind
and this pinch in my side.

well tell me why,
you don't gotta bottle it all up

too many words and
too little time
i can't really tell down from up
because i'm perfectly insane
in all the right ways
i seem to fit this sort of criteria
of how many tears i've cried
and lives denied.

well you know i'm here for ya,
i don't quite know what to say,
except it'll all be okay

but that's the thing man, it wont
because it gets bad before it gets good
and it gets good so it can get bad
i have felt much less love that i have shown
but that's all good cause i don't get all that i should
i don't know, man, i just get kinda sad
sometimes i kinda miss my mom and dad

but they were ****, weren't they?
and you know, that's okay.

you gotta quit saying that
because it's not alright, not okay
i've gotten so tired and lonely and fat
not much else to say
i'm gonna go now man
see you another day.

left on the phone line
wouldn't know their heart was breaking
over their own knee, in with the car key
the ignition, the ride,
their simple lies that everything's just fine

over the bridge
or through the trees
down the mountains
or into the sea

hey man,
you alright?

With pain comes strength
With strength comes words
Words that are conveyed into a work of art