my poetry lives through my tragedy.

my wonderful accomplishments a world of #fuckitupanywhichwayyoucanandwhenyoucantdontworrysomeoneelsewill
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its a new word for my creative soul.

life is good and the poetry bad.

something everyone should aspire to.

not me.

i live in bittersweet notions

novel novels that live and breathe alternate realities

my realities, with just enough tilt to deny it convincingly well.

ive had the gamut of pains and ills

spared just a few that I still in some twisted way feel ungrateful for.

my hand crafting what my soul denies

my soul suffering my cruel intentions of self demise.

and all for what?

a revelrie in my  hidden thoughts?

an appreciation of my unique set circumstances?

a combination of wordss and thoughts, feelings and contexts peppered with an acute irony that defies psychological definition?

my words are my life,

my knee **** reaction to what i miss most;

the feeling of innocence,

of righteousness,

the world before the seduction of evil,

before the awareness of deception and cruelty.

the safety ive lost,

the horrid deeds done in the name of innocence

and the defiled love that stains my soul with its constant attacks of dark beauty

these are my tragedies

these are my wordss

what else is there,

but wait for applause?