Who needs love.
It's a curse.
And I have never learned how to cast it.

you are not your grades or your scars
your height or your weight
you are not your face or the color of your hair

you are the person you define yourself to be
you are who you want to be
you are not the opinion of the people around you

you are your soul
be it old or young
you have lived many lives
and this is just the beginning

Everyone loves the poems that hurt me the most. It's little wonder that the greatest writers, the ones whose works we lovingly praise, were merely lost, broken fools.

Where do dreams go when they die?
Do they leave our perception and ascend to the sky?
To fuel our rewards for living as pure?
But that would simply make death the cure.

Perhaps they fall with us down below?
Sinking to the depths of torment as we go.
Looped on repeat, you're faux greatest hits.
Forced to watch your soul crumble to bits.

For some, dreams are the goal of the greater good.
Others dream of evil they'd do if they could.
The polarity of dreams mold our world today.
When things we do turn to things we say.

Nightmares can haunt us,  why must dreams resist?
Feeling unwanted even though we insist.
The fate of the future lies in our dreams.
Will they be joyous cried or hallowed screams?