I'm writing this poem because I'm ******
And upset and sad and really **** annoyed
But mostly because I'm ******
I'm ****** because I try so ******* hard to get everything right
Every single thing
I am trying my absolute best
To get it "all right"
And for you, for all of you.
And for some reason that is not good enough
To you, I have let you down
To you, I could have done better
To you, I have failed.
I try to make it through my day
and there is a **** hurricane destroying my brain
and I honestly can't take it anymore.
And you know what makes me even more upset?
The fact that you like it
You, sitting at your computer
You will click the heart and you will Like it
Because this world tells you
that Pain is beautiful to you
Anxiety is complex
and Emotional Destruction is Art
And that ******* ****** me off, too.
Emotional deterioration is not Art
My insane hurricane of internal blame
Is not for you to click the heart and "Like" it
Or for you to share with your Facebook friends.
Why don't you like the love poem?
Or the psalm of happiness?
Or the gentle, giggly limerick?
Is that because we only see internal turmoil as beautiful now?
What about rhymes of sunsets and silhouettes?
And clandestine loves and clinking castanets?
Where are their electronic hearts?
Do those only belong to slitted wrists
and broken heart plot twists?
Well, that's not true
And this ****** poem isn't for you.
This ****** poem is for me
and for what I feel
and for what I create
and for what I accomplish
because what I make is beautiful
and there are so many aspects of this life that are beautiful without being painful
And that little red-clicked heart doesn't mean jack **** to me.