You're a joke
I laugh about every day.
That seems to be the only way
To stop myself from crying
Or setting things on fire.
My friends think they've got the old me back, but she's still recovering from the heart attack.    
Sometimes I pray for a head crash that will knock every beautiful thing you promised out of my nights.  
It never seems to arrive.
I just hope I won't go asking for it some dull hour under severe lights and a dancefloor.
The only comfort seems to be that you are far away in a lonely, bored and unsure state.
I know that you don't think great things of me anymore,
That's why I've finally decided to let you go and forget about the wasted minutes I spent hunched over the *** of my heart ladling too much into your bowl.  
I ought to have known you would get sick of the same taste.

Everyone eventually does in this world.

My Wounded heart
will beat each day
against all odds.
Just as the ocean snuffs
out the sun on the horizon
every nightfall.
it will always carry on.

i mean i started writing poetry young
too,
but most it is lost to time,
i haven't kept any of it - the overpowering
surge to become that old cello
player prodigy who just said:
'i'm still only practising,
it sounds good, but i still have to feel
armchair leather with the bow and strings,
or like routing out circles using
the index and thumb to feel a gentle
tickling sensation of skin upon skin
with each finger eating up the other's
fingerprint valleys for champagne sparkles.'
and what i've noticed is that
a poet in youth is primarily trying to
overcome pronoun use - juvenilia output
is primarily about that - obviously the use
of pronouns in any form of writing is
unavoidable - but to overcome a certain
awareness of them is what proves to be
the rolling snowball to spur anyone on -
ever deeper, ever more like a lighthouse on
a rocky shore, rather than as a ship with
many sailors apprehensively readying themselves
to either sail on, or shatter against the waves
should someone not mind becoming the lighthouse;
the sailing on is equated with an abandonment
of writing poetry - the new crew with the same
dilemma of overly using pronouns at first,
later abandoning them to stand firm as a honing
rotation of light.

01:52 am
have you ever asked yourself like why you so lonely?*

01:53 am
or empty?

that maybe you give too much of your essence to people and never leave any of you for yourself

01:55 am
i know i do

02:05 am
and like that's maybe why i get so attached to humans

because in them,
i find myself

02:07 am
i need to change, because things shouldn't be this way

02:10 am
but it's hard sometimes you know, when most days you don't leave the house because you feel unworthy of the space you take up

02:16 am
so you'd much rather disintegrate into soil because you've become all too familiar with people stepping over you and admiring the outcome of your beauty but never the roots of your pain

02:19 am
i spend so much effort watering people in order for them to grow and hardly get enough sun shine to feed my own soul

02:25 am*
because i don't know how to do anything else but care for everyone but myself

Sound the Flute!
Now it’s mute.
Birds delight
Day and Night
Nightingale
In the dale
Lark in Sky
Merrily
Merrily Merrily to welcome in the Year

Little Boy
Full of joy,
Little Girl
Sweet and small,
**** does crow
So do you.
Merry voice
Infant noise
Merrily Merrily to welcome in the Year

Little Lamb
Here I am.
Come and lick
My white neck.
Let me pull
Your soft Wool.
Let me kiss
Your soft face
Merrily Merrily we welcome in the Year

A pen,
firmly sat in the bosoms of her fingers.
Tentatively displaying his virility on a paper.
That shimmers like it has just been immersed in blood.
The words,
written,
stink like burnt bird feathers