I’ve become selfish with my poems.
I’ve started not to care about the quality of them.
“That’s so beautiful” they would say.
Now I just want it to be unappreciated.
I don’t care for the oohs and awes.
Those are the times when I would write for others.
Now I write for myself.
This a ugly mess relating to only me.
To write about how I truly feel.
To care not what others think.
Like it or love it.
It’s no longer significant.
The long extended detail poems are contrary to how I feel now.
A man of few words.
The words I know are no longer adequate.
I am depressed and I never knew that poetry wouldn’t be enough to describe my situation.
It’s made me selfish. I don’t care to explain.
I just reluctantly strive to get over this ****.

How genuine of you to only think of my value in a transactional view.
As we debate on the topic of generosity, strolling along the lines of what the attributes of an authentic person is according to the confused world’s unstable dictionary.
It’s simple you see, you see digital scriptures that explain the indicators of what such would appear as and we all forgot our own flaws, the construct of what makes up human beings and it is sickening to watch.
It is the most despicable traits that are being championed.

I wanted to expand my art.
I thought of many ways of how you make me feel, many images populated inside of my head.
I thought of how I could write this into words but a painting or drawing would be better.
How could I describe when you entered my life?
I thought of love and happiness.
I thought of the sweet smell of clean fresh air entering my nostrils.
A cup of hot Ethiopian coffee paired with the morning sunshine.
I thought of many things but I wasn’t happy when I met you.
I was the graphic of blue.
Blue like the deepness of the night.
Blue like the absence of light.
I was utterly blue so sorry but this is my imagination of you…
The golden hand with a picture with red hot liquid pouring into a deceased blue heart. This is your meaning.
A human capable of revival.
So with the love that I received from you, I offer it all and more back to you.
I love you.

You find yourself coasting through a dark ocean and nothing but still air.
There’s no enjoyment in what you feel.
Everything just filters through.
Anger isn’t anger.
Happiness isn’t happiness.
As if you are numb, even being numb doesn’t feel like a feeling at all.

I’ve been swimming in a mucky puddle with my mouth open wide.
The soiled water keeps rushing in.
I place my hands over my face to reflect the downpour but it still continues to breach my blockade.
I’m so exhausted, I’m pinned, I’m fully expended.
I accept it because my legs are too weak to stand and my arms are too numb from opposing.
Thoughts cross my mind of ambitious attempts of freedom but my eyes are too hazy to see the light.
I fall weightlessly to the solid ground.
Hollowed or rather expired from my dissolved resolve.
I’m withering in the bright of summer.

I’m guessing whenever I feel a strong emotion I should take notes.
I don’t have much left.
I rarely feel them.
So I thought if I inscribe them, maybe they’ll be reminders.
Reminders that I still have a trace of an organism in me.
Because my world is pretty gray and even my words nowadays don’t have much expression.
You could probably see the vacancy in my face.
I find my conversations are very vague and everyone around me has a name.
And my soul is such a hollow space.
My heart has froze over.

Do I shoot for greatness.
Do I attain this face that is a form of entertainment.
Do I give up on the me I’m comfortable to be.
Is it a fair enough exchange of payment.
I don’t really know anymore.
I just know I don’t wanna remain like this for sure.