May build our homes,
but people will always desert me.

I dig language so much,
I've hit rock-bottom.

Much like electricity,
I travel the path of least resistance.
Combined with my eccentricity,
this puts a damper on my persistence.

It is said we should take the path less travelled,
but, in itself, that leads to isolation.
Before we have the mysteries of life unravelled,
we are told this with no consolation...

Society is such that "intellects" can't thrive.
It's created for masses, which works somewhat well...
For an "intellect" to find intrinsic drive,
This runs the risk of creating a shell.

If we are all nodes in circuit,
expected to be independent,
how do we know if it's all really worth it?
Who becomes our psychological defendant?

C'est la vie, and such are these musings...
All I write about will likely never change.
I just find it morbidly amusing,
maybe I'm slightly deranged...

Like a star, you
are completely unstable.
This is certainly true,
it is no fable.

A constant battle, between
your constant auto-criticism,
crushing your self-esteem...
Lashing out with witticism.

And your thoughts coming together
beautiful yet destructive,
yet it's only when it's them you aim to tether
do they tend to get disruptive.

Although I'm under no illusion
and I realise that your beauty can blind,
you create energy like nuclear fusion
and boggle my mind.

Some will be blinded by your brilliance,
others will never fathom your inner struggles.
You will have to find intrinsic stimulants,
and amaze those who watch you juggle

Once upon a time, I met a girl.
Now, I'm certainly no geologist,
but I can definitely say she rocked my world.
So much so, that I may need to see a psychologist.

This girl was beautiful from head to toe.
Not just because of aspects like personality or aesthetics,
but because she continued to fight her internal foe.
The kind of ceaseless beauty not found in cosmetics.

Sadly, she cannot seem to see herself as I do -
shrugging off compliments or scoffing in disbelief.
She struggles every moment of ever day, yet there is one I rue:
The moment she convinces herself death is the only relief.

I find solace in my solitude.
I tend to idealise my isolation.
Reaching the apex of my creative altitude.
I guess it's time for my medication...

The only truth I can ever know
is that of the thoughts within my mind.
And yet, it is my only true foe,
one I can never leave behind...

They say beauty comes from within.
If so, then where do anger, remorse and resentment reside?
Because I'm struggling to hear over the din;
it seems as though my beauty has no place to hide.

Is there enough space for all this emotion?
If I have a choice, I choose only one:
to get rid of all this commotion,
I have done what has had to be done.