Ever feel lonely?
I just want a soul
To talk to.
I'm in
Pitiful
Wretchedness.
I want to talk.
Someone listen
Let me learn about you.
I'm a wretch
A pitiful wretch.
Talk to me

I feel like a bother to people;
I feel like a burden.
I feel like so many people's lives
Would benefit from me not being part of them.
I'm always sad.
No matter what drug they give me next.
I'm good at faking.
Laughter.
A smile.
Compassion.
I give so much to people,
Yet I get nothing in return.
I've heard that people are indebted to me.
Yes, very much so.
But I can't say that;
That's mean and insensitive.
And I'm not good at cruel.
I'm good at me;
Whatever that is.
I feel alone.
All the time.
Because I guess it's easier to text
"I'm sorry ):"
Then to call and ask "what's wrong?"
I feel unappreciated.
I give so much
And help so often.
Yet I'm the one always begging for a life vest
Because I'm drowning.
I feel sad.
Plain and simple - I AM DEPRESSED.
I am up and down every day.
But there are more frequent downs
Than ups.
I feel like I have no purpose.
That this life is a waste of time;
A never-ending ride.
But I want off.
I feel like a bother to people.
Maybe if I disappeared...

Am I not a poet?
Yet poets speak,
Ere the moon doth move
In her heavenly orb
Or Jove doth sit upon his golden
Thronez
Poetry is the fruit of love,
Nay passion.
For I love the flowers
The temperant wind in May,
Yet I do not write on those subjects,
Yay passion is the fruit of love.
Ere I spake to mine own heart
It did grow the delicate fruit
That called itself poetry.
And indeed I call mine self poet
And writer
And I am one.
Nay to those foul tempered men
Men of rank,
Yet there's more rancor to them
Than ranks of their own.
They do not believe
And yet poet am I.
And I write and they listen not.
Fool fool they are
Fool fool I was.
Am I not a poet?
Nay they will never believe.
They believed in Shakespeare
And am I not he?
Nay I am a poet
Humble
Not a playwright
Not a bard.
Not he whose words are held as celestial alone
I call mine self a poet
And a poet I be.

His hand slid around her waist,
The moonlight shone upon
The trees, spotlights,
She could feel his warm breath
Caressing her skin.
She leaned in,
He closed his eyes,
He leaned in,
She closed her eyes,
And wow, something
Electric.

I hate you
The words floating from my
Brain to the page
Like bees to their hive
Those words hate you .
My mouth drips with disdain for you
Like when you drip saliva after
Biting into a juicy peach
Hate.
I hinted
I should have written signs in
The sky.
You wouldn't have even seen those.
Even if I wrote it on my forehead
You would have been stone blind
Leave me alone.
I hate you.

Faces,
Square
Rough
Marble. Their eyes empty and gray,
Lacking life,
They're dead.
Faces
Chiseled into stone.
One then another
Four in a row
W, J, R, L
Four names in a list.
Yet not in chronological order.
None smile
Yet we smile at them,
Who are they?

Yeah they're my family,
Sometimes I'm embarrassed
Sometimes I'm proud.
I'm stuck for five days straight
With the lot of them.
And part of me
Wants out.
Free yourself
Release
Run away.
And part of me says
Yeah they're my family.
Stick with 'em.
And I stay in the car,
Sitting and thinking.
About myself.
My life without my family.
After college, after getting a real job
And starting my own family,
So my own daughter will think
Yeah they're my family.

He has no home
But pulls
His head into
His head
And Holmes comes home
He smokes a pipe
He does not type
And Holmes comes home
He befriends a doctor
Considers every factor
And Holmes comes home
A genius
Almost a superman
But yet explainable
I understood

I can't believe how heavy words are
They drip like wax into my soul.
They swirl and swirl
Until the thick mixture has the texture
Of brownie mix.
Words pile on me.
I feel their weight upon my back.
Cute
Fat
Ugly
Unique
Apocraphayl.
They crush me.
They are heavy.
Words are heavy.