Cobalt, periwinkle, turquoise, baby.
Name a color and I have been it.
Some days it’s more pastel,
others’ it’s midnight.

Anything can be a lullaby,
if you try hard enough.
Ring around the Rosie,
is about death.

I hate reading
My old poetry,
Knowing how blue
I was.

I hate reading
My old poetry,
Because I knew
I was in a bad place.

I hate reading
My old poetry,
Because it shows
How lonely I am.

I hate reading
My old poetry,
Because it hurts
Me.

I hate reading
My old poetry,
For the pain
I was feeling.

I deal with
My old poetry,
Because now I’ve
Learned from it.

I have skin wrapped around me
Like a present.

I have a lonesome heart,
and I’m not afraid to admit it.
My friends think I’m boy-crazy.
But truth is, I’m just lonely.
Having a lonesome heart is miserable.
You feel empty and low
And once it feels complete
It’s broken again.
Nobody can love me,
And if they do,
I cannot accept it.
It feels unnatural
And strange,
Being sad, insane, and alone.

Be like
A mirror,
And reflect.

The end goal seems too far,
Without results.
The life you started is too far,
From what you want it to be.
The pain you have is too far,
To be fixed.
The broken heart is too far,
From being loved.
The aloneness is too far,
From losing the feeling.
The tears are too far,
From drying up.
The life you have is too far,
From being meaningful.