I want so desperately to be
beautiful,
so I write my
beautiful poetry using
beautiful words;
but that;s a lie.
It’s not beautiful.
Each and every one of my pieces are
horrid,
ugly,
defected...
just like me.
There’s no way I’ll ever be
pretty
(or pretty enough).
Nobody wants me,
anyways.

I’m made to be
lonely,
that’s why my mind seems so
complex.
I’ll never be alone;
I always have my thoughts...
or not.
Truth is,
I’ll never have anybody or
anything I want;
even though
all I ask for is someone to make me feel
beautiful.

Is that too much?