sometimes I like to pretend I am good at things like cooking or drawing or singing or driving or charming or loving or writing or thinking acting or coping or making genuine human connections.

but i'm not.



oops.

10:30 11:47 12:56 1:12 2:38 3:23 a.m.

the screen is a burning light
That seeps through my eyes
with a flaming sensation

this little blue screen
has several hues
and each one will be the death of me

maybe one day i'll realize the source of my sadness is not my mind
it is just the little bird and the Kodak camera constantly calling my name

My eyes aren't the kind you'd write a song about
         no deep lakes of hazel to fall into

My beauty is nothing that would keep a tortured poet up at night
         nothing to compete with the spellbinding beauty of a harvest moon

My smile will never be anyone's reason to hold on
         nor will my soul, nor will my heart

No one will ever wish they could dive deeper into my mind
         for there is nothing of interest inside

I will never create anything with my hands
so mesmerizing
         as to make someone give me a second glance, a second thought, a second chance

All I can offer is passion and naivety
         and I'm sorry darling, because I know that was never enough