Poetry, for me, is like ****.

I get to watch events unfolding in front of me on my computer.
I can imagine how something will play out.
My imagination can run wild while viewing it.

Poetry is like **** for me.
Something to enjoy on my screen.
Something to give me a thrill.

Poetry is like **** for me.
Something I like to dabble in alone.
Something I fill my phone and laptop with.
Something I consider intimate.

Poetry, for me, is like ****.
I like to imagine myself in a small part of both.

But in both situations,

I'm getting ******.

“Reach out to people.”
“Talk to them first.”

I do. Then they leave after like 3 texts.
Or they quickly change the subject.
I hate that.
People don’t wanna recognize or talk about the real stuff out here.

The hurt, the pain.

They just don’t wanna talk about it.

But unfortunately, that’s all I am.

I can’t find the words that I want to say to you.
Every time I try to speak,
I choke on the dirt and grass that cover graves.
I choke on the insects that infest bodies post-exodus.
I choke on the last little breaths I have left in this hole.

I’m drowning in this dirt.

I’m dying in this grave of unspoken words.

Here we are again. A place I’m all too familiar with. My bedroom. Late at night. I’m sitting here upset at something I saw on the Internet again. Or something someone said again. Here I am laying in my own sadness and depression, laying here in my own disappointment. Why is it like this every single ******* time?

I lay here and just try to fall asleep, but instead I want to fall off a cliff. But instead, I try to fall into a song. I fall face first into some deep-**** lyrics, and heart first into a melody that can move tears down cheeks and mountains both at the same time. I keep hoping that the music will take me away from here. Take me away from this information that makes me want to scream and shout and cry and ***** all at the same time in some weird, guttural image that would put Picasso out on street corners begging for eyes to gaze upon his art. But is it too much to beg for eyes to gaze upon a heart?

Maybe my heart is just lonely and needs attention. I’ve never been sure if I give it enough myself. But there’s only so much one person can do for something until it needs a second pair of eyes, a second pair of hands, a second opinion, a second dose of love. Maybe my twin size bed is keeping that second pair of eyes, that second dose of love from having any room to squeeze into my heart. Or maybe I’ve just never been good at sharing. I always eat more cookies then I should. I want the whole pizza to myself. And don’t even get me started on music selection.

I’m rambling again, but I think I’m just distracting myself from what I saw again. Or what I heard again. I’m trying to distract my mind because it doesn’t know how to process what it’s just seen, what it’s just heard.  I don’t know how to cope with being let down. I don’t know why, because I’ve been let down so much you think I’d have chosen a final resting place by now.

It’s too dark in here to see what I can do about this. So, I just do what I always do. After listening to my music, pity *******, and crying trying not to be heard, I lay down and try to rest.

Maybe I’ll fall asleep, and in the morning, it’ll all be better.

Or maybe I’ll fall asleep, and in the morning, it’ll all be over.

I’m not sure which thought is gonna help me get to sleep.

It is said that the mighty don’t kneel for any **** body.
I am not mighty, but if you strip me bare,
I have got two things left:
My ***** and my word,
And I don’t break them for any **** body.
At the end of the day,
All I am is who I am,
Which gives me all the power in the World,
To be so much more.
Because I ain’t just any **** body.