In search of life.
I find my eyes getting lost in the past.
Some alternate reality.
Some place or time it could last.

I'm pretty sure everything I say
is just a quiet cry for help.
I express my joy, a smile on my face—
but if you read between the lines,
you'll see me melt.

I mask my pity in beautiful words,
my word *****—
strung into sonnets,
and called art.

I beg them to read,
to open their eyes and see,

to hear at my pleas—
look at me, and weep.

But I'm a pathetic poet,
I yearn to be understood.
Yet, they only read my work,
and call it good.

my heart is drenched
in flame
my heart
has gone
way  beyond
what you  so rightly call
shame.

yes,
i love a compliment
(i'm only human)
but this is getting confusing.

if i'm so great
why couldn't you stay?

if i'm so deserving of love
why couldn't you love me?

if i'm so beautiful
why'd you always criticize me?

you were dead-set on tearing me down.

& now,
i wonder,
do you hear yourself
when you say these sweet things to me?

what do you really think,
when you think of me?