I gave you a part of myself
and you just left it there.
How could you leave my soul
sitting on the coffee shop table
you kissed me at?
I don’t even like coffee
Now I know
You didn’t even like me.
To you I am tea and you have a slight
Distaste of leaves that separate so easily
I have distaste for bitterness
and caffeine.
The world should keep you awake,
those songs should keep you alive,
but you need coffee
And I am tea.
I hope you fare well in the future,
I now understand.
My hurt is at my own fault.
I should have known that you like
to try before you buy.
I should have learnt that when
You bought your first car.
Now I know.
You go find your coffee,
And I’ll find my tea.
I am just a little sad because
I thought at least you would like to keep a part of me
But hindsight really is a great teacher,
I now know what I should have seen then.
Mixtapes are meaningless to you.
I am meaningless to you.
They play the mix at the coffee shop sometimes
while I’m eating breakfast
and I remember.
I order tea
You are meaningless to me.

How can I access these feelings
I’ve never felt before?
No experience can measure to the
pain I feel internally, fragmentally.
I’ve never felt real pain,
but I can write.
I can imagine how it is to feel this way
is this indirect or insincere?
I’m not sure.
But I feel it.
In my lungs I feel it.
In my heart I feel it.
In my brain I feel it.
Pain I’ve never experienced,
It’s inside of me
and I can’t make it leave.
How do I make it leave?

This anger is like an iron fist in my chest.
I want to break you like you broke me.
I want to crush your bones,
until they are nothing more than stardust.
I want to scatter them in the wind
so you are everywhere and no where
at the same moment.
I hate you and I love you.
I want to breathe you in,
I want to exhale you out.
You are within and without
my body and my soul.
I want you gone,
but I never want you to leave.
I need you,
but I don’t want you.

We seek perfection,
our souls to be pure.
We fear God,
of not being good enough.
We fear hell,
of being in eternal torment.
But what really torments us
is the weight of these expectations,
for an idea made up in our minds.

We are running a race
so far lost
that before we are born,
we are a product of sin.

We are so enchanted
by this light; the eternal flame.
But the light is artificial.
An ideal constructed by humanity.
The phosphlorescent bulb
that lights our night,
and guides our way in the dark.

It ensnares us.
We blindly pursue the light,
like moths to a flame,
we fool ourselves
with desire.

We can never touch
this light. It is
the sun, the moon
and the stars.

But even the stars
we see in the sky
are dead,
when we see them shine
so bright.

Even the stars die,
wishing to be pure
bringing us beauty,
even so.

Sins are unavoidable;
unless you live a life
of mere content.
Instead we choose
a tormented soul
and are killed slowly
with the tantilising desire
of the unattainable.