The first poem I had ever written
hangs in a frame in the den.
My father shows it off proudly,
I just think it's lousy.
Did you read it?
It wasn't for you.
I was a junior,
he filled my life with humor.
Could it have been about you?
Would I still roll my eyes
and constantly ask my dad why
he has to show it around?
Now I write mostly about you
and this constant feeling
of heartbreak that I go through.
They say life isn't fair.
Looking back at your stare,
I can now only agree.

i was fighting
im tired of hiding
my love for smoke
im quickly smiling
really trying
to be myself
ah
im quietly screaming
loudly dreaming
i wish i would have spoke.
my mouth closed
my mind open.
am i supposed to feel alone?
cant i walk away,
even as i choke?

you wish to sell me roses
my pocket tells me queen annes lace

you dream for something delicate
my hands accustomed for rough

you ache with quiet longing
but i hear your untold groans

your desires are not unique
not a rose within the weeds

your plight is universal
unwanted in our garden

be gentle with our hearts
that attempt to ease your woes

flowers and weeds both grow by the roadside
each bloom in spring from sun

you are not unique within this life
roots, stems, pollen, pedals, blossoms.

I think that I might've been wrong this whole time
and that all my life's been an endless road of false imagery
about myself and the ones surrounding me.

Everyone's sayin' these days:
"just do your thing!"
"be more egotistic!"
"risk it!"
"live a little!"
"give less ***** about what others think!"
"you're on your own!"
"don't get involved in other's lives, as they don't get involved in yours"
and I seem more and more confused,
not getting any of the words they're sayin';
feeling silly all of a sudden...
like I imagine some people in those pictures
or videos where they put a black box over someone's eyes.

I feel like I've been livin' as a small,
odorless flower in a big garden,
all a long waiting for the right gardener
to thin out the seedlings around me and now
I've ended up alone in the most beautiful vase,
in the house of the most gifted perfume creator,
that normally feels every bird ****,
but now feels nothing.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3zGRQsYZE7U

i feel sick
but not the kind of throw up sick
the type of sick that never goes away
no matter how many times you try to close your eyes and sleep it away
no amount of sleep can heal you
because whenever you awake you'll be just as sick as before
with constant feeling of uncertainty and pain

i am my own cancer
as tasteless as it may be
im eating myself away
moving throughout my body
at a record pace
im killing myself
slowly but surely, every single day

sometimes, i have this desire,
or maybe a wish
(i can't tell you the difference),
of one day.
one day that might never happen,
or ever become reality,
since its so out of the bounds of it.
after a long day of something,
or nothing, or everything,
i'll fall asleep
clinging to the darkness of my mind
and the dreams that pull me to bed.
then, i'll wake up
somewhere different as someone different.
as though what and how i've lived
has only been imagination,
something i conjured up for fun.
i don't know what that says about me
to imagine such a dream,
or wish for such a day,
but i guess my wishes are different than most.