I will never have a love life.
I will live being lonely because I do not believe in soulmates,
I do not believe I am on Earth so another human being
Can **** me when they please.
All of my relationships
Don't work.
And it is not that I wish they would have,
It is that with the very last one
I tried.
I do not believe in soulmates but I will live lonely
Because a person could have been put on Earth for me
That I am not meant to spend the rest of time with.
I have cravings across bodies of water that make it easy to see
The sky is not big enough,
And the winds carry nothing but emptiness and leaves.
Love is not all that is wrong with my life.
If I had love, I still would never be
Myself.
I am not satisfied with only close friendships because
Still, they cannot understand all of me.
My dishes and plastic cups all have tiny holes at the bottom,
With which you can pour water for days on end
But it will never reach the top.
I leave every cabinet open,
Because I do not like closing things.
I can't have *** with someone unless I love them,
And I won't ever have a love life
So I have convinced myself otherwise-
That virginity is just a social construct designed to
Make us feel bad.
I am worried about my mind.
It seems destiny is all only for me and my writing,
And not at all anything else.
I am worried because I do not want to be
Miserable until I die.
I am worried my Depression is what
Makes me a good writer,
And that I will be like
Edgar Allan Poe,
Hemingway,
And we will all die alone.
My sadness
Makes me intelligent,
Makes a personality that is not too boring
For a poem about sympathy.
I exist in crooked dimensions,
Where another person could try to
Want me with their fingers but it will most likely
Die out at their eyes.
I feel everything that is broken.
I feel nothing,
I feel I do not like my neighborhood.
I feel a nice neighborhood is not enough for a
Creative mind.
I feel my worries will **** me before my body does,
And marriage is a lie.
I feel I am not seen as art anymore,
And that all of my paintings of van Gogh are just
Desperation to try,
And failure.
My brain is interconnected with
Pain,
So much so that you are happier Drunk
Than thinking of me.
I do not Drink to form my sentences,
Despite what you might believe,
They are all just as Sad when I first hear them.
I believe that God is tired of me,
Or that I am selfish for using him in my writing.
I think He sees my cracked ceiling,
And expects me to believe it’s Him.
I think I am pathetic for remembering
That crack in the ceiling was from me.
He knows my walls are collapsing,
But I am still laying calmly inside.
My paintings hang around my head,
They are falling-
And I am not so afraid because I am
Falling, too.
I am worried about my Writing.