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We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.

We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.
It's worth it though.
I don't know how to stop writing about you
How to stop picturing myself with you
How to stop seeing you behind my eyelids
Each time I blink

Maybe you're in my bloodstream
Flowing to my heart, reminding it to beat,
But it is more likely you are simply
Each thought that I think

And I guess this is all there is
And maybe I'm out of luck

But in the words
Of the famous Kate Moss,
You're in my veins,
You ****
I kept looking through all the old messages we used to sent each other. And now I can't stop thinking about you.
Stop humoring me
If you don't really care,
Because I'm wasting my time --
Wasting my life,
And I can't afford any more breaks.
Anymore breaks and I'll shatter,
Don't you understand that?
I'm just trying to find a clear image
In this distorted blur;
I want a clear reflection
In this dark pool.
So, take off your mask,
Because I'm tired --
Exhausted -- from all these masquerades.
I just want to dance barefoot in the sand...
Do you want to dance barefoot in the sand?
What the hell did I just write?
Emotions, bleh.
Words disappeared,
and we were left with nothing
but the electricity.
It, too, fizzled into oblivion.
Nothing I make of words can ever be confused with beautiful because I don't see beautiful things, only things in tandem, stuck between, feverish and naked as my burning brain substitutes ******* for dead protesters. This is a sickness I will not grow out of; I cannot say I want to grow because I do not want, I am a mind in a hollow shell which I keep beating with toxins that will **** me sooner than most. I do not care if you read this. This is not for you. This is not about you. It is always, will always, be about me. That is as close to happy as I will be. When did my poetry become so self-serving: I have turned art into work, art for the sake of speaking literally about my conscience and how are you still reading? I am not talking to you. This is not poetry but narcissistic whining and who doesn't love wallowing in the endless sea of their own *******. One thing: When I am dead, do not say I am gone. I have gone nowhere. I have been the only place I will ever be; a brain in a skull in a body, every second I know trapped in crawling skin. Do not say I am gone. I was never really here to begin with.
my own mind
robs me of serenity
delusions seem real
and fears of the future
seem imminent

a huge weight is lifted
when I trust in a loving power
I do not know what
but it's not me

Quakers call it the Divine Light
Taoists call it the Great Tao
and Yoda called it the force all around us
I choose to call it *Love
Like you go back to those **** cigarettes,
I go back to you.
So go ahead, take a drag.

Watch me be consumed
with every inhale

and forgotten
with every


Wearing my heart on my sleeve,
came at a cost it seems.
I let you love me.
I let you destroy me.
Until I fell upon my knees.

I can get over the face in the mirror.
In fact I kind of like it, bunched and
furrowed in thoughts, wet webs of contempt.

I wonder if I'd be a good father.
It doesn't take much to show up.

How am I going to tell my step-dad
my grades ******* blow this semester?
These are the
important questions.

How will I tell this futuristic child
St. Nicholas died in the 4th century CE?
Is telling him/her a bad thing, or
is there somehow more fun in that?

I've caught myself treating twitter profiles
like messiahs, without the martyr.
Those two lines sound very self-serving
because I don't write sarcasm well.
I've found coherence to be tedious
and boring and that's barely it.

Most sad poems are also
beautiful because they are pure,
untainted and untouchable, some
golden pendant forged of
***** not given.

If I have a son.
If he has my face, my mind.
He will be sad. He will not know why.
He will be an artist. But he will not just create. He has to learn.

You cannot make a thing without first
taking a thing away.
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