can only lead to
You draw the card of the clown,
the card of the fool,
Thinking about things that do not matter.
And dreaming of useless banter.
Fog in the windows,
isn't always romantic.
Hand on hand,
after school hugs,
dancing in rain,
flipping of thugs.
Anonymous locker love notes
you kept in a box,
driving past your house,
and always having to stop.
We rode in a horse drawn carriage
at this time of year.
Autumn will always be close to me,
and make me feel close to you.
You, frequent writer frequent soul.
******* lover ******* roll.
Gentle as the night touches you,
memories upon memories.
The fragmentations of reality and dreamscape blend.
How do I mend.
What was once scratches on paper, becomes public.
What was once teenage hood infatuation becomes stoic.
There are moments I forget who I am,
and then I remember.
I used to write better poetry.
** took that from me when she took my heart.
I feel the fog coming in.
I forget what it feels like to be truly happy.
No, that isn't right...
I forget what it feels like to feel, all right.
100% alright, okay.
It's been a constant battle for the past, forever.
Dealing with the demons at my doorstep.
I get better, I get worse, hit rock bottom, empty purse.
I get worse I get better,
I get numb.
Numb is how I can best describe it.
When I look in the mirror I don't even see me.
I see a skull with baggy eyes.
I see a face without a mind.
I'm not sure which direction I am going in.
I have everything I ever wanted,
more or less.
I have a roof over my head, I have a pet, I have a girl.
Can someone tell my mental health that?
I have finally realized why I have never felt pretty.
It is because, because...
I have dated several people who have called me beautiful.
But I could never understand why they would say that.
I assumed it was a formality.
For years, and years, some people have been attracted to me.
And I didn't know why.
Now that I am finally living in my correct sexuality.
With a fiance soon to be wife.
I am starting to understand.
She calls me beautiful, and pretty.
And doesn't under stand why I don't agree.
And it's because I never see anyone who looks like me.
So mixed, mixed salad.
Darkish skin, asian eyes, trini lips trini hips, white something? I don't know.
I look like nothing anyone has ever known.
My hair is both Trini, white, asian, and whatever else is peppered into who I am.
I am an almost complete puzzle of races.
I think only I can fully grasp that.
Being in my late twenties is not as **** as I thought it would be.
Now I find myself waiting for my thirties.
When I'll be
thirty, flirty, and thriving.
I would at least like to hold on to the last part.
Thriving is what I want to be.
I feel like being in your late twenties is second teenage hood.
You develop new skin problems and need meds, you are also a reckless mess.
But hey at least now you live alone,
at least now you
In a sense.
I'll try to enjoy my late twenties.
As my sisters surpass my talents.
Maybe thirty will be my year.
On realizing I'm not a teenager anymore. And far from it.
I feel kind of awful and I don't know why.
It's like something isn't sitting right.
My stomach churns but I'm not hungry.
My lungs burn but I'm not burning.
I feel hot, I feel cold, I feel young, I feel old.
Maybe I am just feeling too much.
Maybe I just need a touch.
Maybe I just need a glass of wine.
Then maybe I can tell myself that I am fine.
I don't know.
I don't know.
It's bad either way so I don't know.
I got a mood ring on my finger.
It's telling me that I am cold,
I decompress, recompose.
Like the green bin I find a new purpose.
Anything to feel like I'm not worthless.
To feel okay.
The though of you tastes like ***** in my throat.
I have been dreaming a lot lately.
I see you, innocent and simple, before you realized what you compromised.
I wonder if I will ever be free.
Free from my memories.
When I think of them I get sick.
That's why I taste *****.
***** at the back of my throat.