By the end of the night my mascara leaves black smudges under my eyes because I spend so much time looking down.
I think there is some poetry to be found in the blackness that stains my face, but I have become too tired to find beauty in the ugly moments.

There is no beauty in the bugs that travel frantically around my veins,
Or the *** stained memories of drunken kisses,
The darkness hiding behind the pedophiles that live under my bed is raw ugliness.    
         It is not beautiful that I think so much
about *******.

And my desperate need to be desired is vile; it is not poetry.

I will never be able to write poetry...

I have been up for 2 days worrying about infinity and I am
ugly.
I have spent all of my life worrying about an invisible father,
rhyming words and built up anger.

this is it.

I will only believe in the beautiful things now,
Like my mothers face.
and a kiss on the shoulder at midnight,
I have spent far too long in the dark, to put my faith into unseeable light.