Mirror mirror,
on the wall,
no body around me so I come begging your call,
mirror mirror
on the wall
somebody save me before i fall.

Sometimes it just feels like all the walls are closing in,
my thoughts get so mixed up I don't know where to begin.
Asphyxiated, struggling to get my breath in.
Uneducated on the world we are living in,
wearing a fake smile, feeling so paper thin.
Waiting for a blessing every time that you sin.
Because "God forgives all" who go out to seek him,
kneeling at a wall, staring at the ceiling.
Saying their prayers hoping that they're reaching,
working 9 to 5 and living for the weekend.
Not long before they realise they're in the deep end.

Never choosing one moment of self reflection,
screaming **** THE WORLD and not worried about directions,
see yourself for who you are,
including imperfections,
so mirror mirror on the wall,
you can voice all your discretion's,
for all of us who fear the feeling of self rejection,
for people who have a voice but no platform for projection,
I feel like this is another one of life's harsh lessons.
The pressure building inside feels like it's never ending.

Mirror mirror,
on the wall,
nobody around me so i come begging your call,
mirror mirror
on the wall
somebody save me before i fall.

the gift of friendship

the gift of friendship is a priceless gift, that cannot be brought or sold,its value if far greater than a mountain of gold. for gold is cold and lifeless,it can neither see nor hear,and in the time of trouble it is powerless to cheer. it has no ear to listen,no heart to listen. it cannot bring you comfort or reach out a helping hand. so when you ask god for a gift,be thankful if he sends,not Diamonds,pearls or riches, but the love of a real true friend. PS: this is from my anthology. i hope you like it

I'm widely awake
in the middle of the night
deeply hurt and pained

I remember you when I was on a slow burn to hell
slowly slipping further from your love
until finally I could see you no more.
I glimpsed my direction, and I knew where I was headed.
That was the defining moment, clearly I had to change course , radically.

Words...words, words
Words don't ******* work when your
Mind conducts the chorus ticking
Time distorts our memory until the
Image of ourselves is bleak and left
A lie, alone we shall only ever know
Not a single true thing that's happened...

I can't unlock the doors to my perception
Can't break the floor of my depression
The streets all pour out with indiscretion
Protesting our right to withhold confessions
This process wreaks havoc among friends...

They're just ******* sounds...
How niaeve of me to ever really believe that
I could get to know somebody.
To be deceived by my needs to
Exist socially among busy bees
But we're all just working.

Drinking on sweet honey
Lick her bottle neck when it drips
And don't worry darling when it stings
You're only getting the tip
You're only tasting your own buds
These grooves'll rub your toungue raw
And I saw the way you moved when
That vibration killed the mood and we
Lost the connection.

It's you.
I know it's you.
You leave thought's in my head.
You leave scars on my heart.
You leave pain in my soul.
Everything reminds me of you.

It’s you.
I know it’s you.
The shade of pink your cheeks turn when you blush.
The little marks on your tummy.
The crinkles by your eyes when you smile that mediocre smile.
The little bit of blonde color in your hair.
Your eyes.
Your accent.
Your taste.
They're all printed in my brain.

It's you.
I know it's you.
Something's screaming inside,
looking for that person who calms the anxiousness.
Then the searching stops.
And the regrets come back,
along with the demons.
They are imprisoned in my soul again.

It's you.
I know it's you.
But.
Something's bleeding inside.
It’s not blood.
I don’t know what it is.
But it keeps dripping,
until it silently drowns me in a pit of my own despair and sadness.

It's you.
I know it's you.
Something's broken outside.
But it's not glass.
No.
It's the sound my knuckles make as my fist hits wall.
No.
It's the thirst of my throat.
No.
It's the scream of my stomach.
No.
It's the fact that,
You broke every single part that's left of me.

It's you.
It's know it's you.
My ears miss your laughs.
My eyes miss your cheesy smile.
My nose misses that distinctive scent.
My lips miss that mint gum flavor.
My hand misses that touch of your delicate hand.
My shoulders miss that tight hug of yours.
My chest misses the way you made my heart beat so fast.
My feet miss the way it should walk everyday to see you.
My fingers miss the way they entwined with yours.
My hair misses the way you caress it.
Every single part of me is missing you.

It's you.
I know it's you.
Do you miss me like I miss you?
Or am I the pathetic one?
You still make me happy even if you are the main reason why I'm sad.
I let you become my happiness and that's where I went wrong.
Because you killed what was left of the good in me.
Yet I still loved you.

Because.
It's you.
It's always been you.

Somedays I don't feel like writing
and it worries me because
'Writers write everday --
real ones, at least.'
I fear being ordinary,
which is tasteless because
maybe being ordinary
is what I need.

The appeal of snapbacks
and hipster haircuts
is starting to make more sense.
Blending into a crowd
might suit me better;
to be invisible but
to no longer be insecure.

Rap lyrics make more sense,
even though I can't relate;
these words are my sedation,
these clothes aren't armor
but marketable camouflage.
My words have been said before,
but that might be okay because
I'd hate to torment myself
wondering about my relevance.

So, to move on, I write,
and I write, and I write
to pander and to conform.
Substituting thought for
appealing diction and
strong imagery, afraid
to show myself because
maybe you're too much
like me, which, surely,
would eat me alive.

There's a jukebox,
in my mind or yours,
and it plays my song --
or, maybe, it's for you.
And it says what I
never could say, which is
that I am very sorry.

I thought of how I was --
or how we were --
which was not as good
as we had hoped for.
You protected yourself
from remorse and I was
fearfully unapologetic.

You were, and, probably,
still are a cold *****, and I've
been a ******* for years.
Your nose was so crooked,
it could run for office, and
my head was -- and still is --
really big, which is fitting,
considering my ego, and
ironic, since I'm borderline
mentally-*******-*******.

There's an eroding jukebox
and its so confrontational,
due to feeling inferior,
unrecognized, and without
a responsible purpose.

The music from the machine
flows like rushing thoughts,
and the thoughts say:

I sit and write,
I don't mind you
when I don't know you.

Some people are roots,
meant to help with stability,
but you are a branch,
meant to offer a new view,
but also meant to fall off,
maybe, killing whomever
catches you next.

I focus on my bank account
and not feeling alone.
The man in 1080p repeats,
'Where has my America gone?'
Fifty or sixty, and billionaire rich --
I guess I'm his working class *****.

Voting on how to
delude myself best;
I am part of a
dollar bill nest,
where I get to see
but don't get to touch,
where I get to give
but don't get too much.

She said that biting my nails was a bad habit,
as she pulled a puff from the lipstick stained cig.
Habits, I can tell you all about them, she croaked this,
Men, War, Love -- Forgive me for being redundant.
I shook my head and released a laugh that seemed to
float past her, with little acknowledgment, little care.
Men, War, Love, Drugs, *** -- I've had it all inside me,
I've witnessed it tremble through and pass, with gradual
recklessness. I've seen and felt it all, but I wonder if I've
experienced glimpses or the entirety of what life has had
to offer me, bad or not, true or contrived. And this, this
wonderment is my most terrible habit; it will destroy me,
through and through, until nothing is left but a smoldering
foundation; a shell, burning through cigarettes and life.