I don't have any friends- it never mattered
until I realized that it mattered.
Every soul that got close to me
wanted nothing more than all of me.
Thus I gave myself away, time and body.
Lost control of space, self and faith.
I can say for certain I have no god.
That makes things frightening-
because all I have are my own devices.
I can't pretend to believe in imaginary essence.
Frank Ocean sings you gotta believe in something.
Music makes me feel less lonely,
but I wish I had company to enjoy it with.
I need to build myself up- all I have is sawdust.
Why is he so pretty? I'm attracted to what's shiny, dangerous and spiky.
Pretty pinwheels invite me.
I cry and complain when it hurts.
Write when I've got no one but my words.
It isn't fair to poetry.
I keep running to it as a last resort.
Maybe what I say won't amount to anything.
It pains me to say I can't call this anything
but a childish rant.
Seeking attention all along.
What's wrong with wanting
to be wanted?
I'm scared
you'll call me exotic.
At least then
I won't be invisible.
Sometimes the worst is when you're seen
as lost and abysmal.