if you can't laugh at disaster you won't be able to celebrate catastrophe

sorry you ****, babe -
probably because you're a lying,
thieving,
attention-seeking *****.
probably because you're an inconsiderate,
inconsistent,
ingenuine little *******.
sorry you had it all coming to you -
sorry everyone's forgotten about you -
sorry you're a miserable excuse for a human being.
sorry you slice up your arms and parade them around
and still no one cares.
sorry you'll stop at nothing for an inch of spotlight,
and still no one gives it to you.
sorry we all know about you now,
sorry you can't handle it,
sorry you had to run away like the
***** you are
because you burned all your friends along with your bridges.
sorry we caught on,
sorry we're not taking it,
sorry you're alone (so all alone).
sorry you can't handle all the
minor inconveniences in your life
with the grace everyone else does,
and sorry you lack the integrity to try.
sorry you have to pretend to be ****** up
(honestly, what in your life
is causing you pain?
is it the parents that love you,
or the friends you could still have?)
sorry you ****, babe -
and i'm sorry i don't give a ****.

Today I smiled
seeing you next
to me when I woke.
You smiled at me,
but lately
they feel
ingenuine.
(Don't you like me?)

Now I smile
because you want
me to meet your
family.
You joke,
but is it
truth?
( I want to)

I'm smiling
I got to kiss
you in public
and hold hands.
Now you're joking
about your roommate
crying and his
emotions.
Do you not want
yours seen?
(I do though)

I used to think that I loved you for
your near-perfection...
But there was just something about
the two of us
Our love was ingenuine, and later,
we realized, impossible

Ironically, it's been the revelations
of your imperfection
That have, I think, made it possible,
for the first time
For us to love- not that we ever
will, not that we ever should
Because, let's face it, it would
probably be awful, it's just-
It's just that your imperfections
Have allowed me to see, once again
Though so much more truly this
time
The possibility of you and of I

So let's get addicted to cigarettes
together, darling
And running, too
In a supreme dialectic of destroying
ourselves from within
While struggling to better ourselves
from without
Something that may be, I think
The ultimate story of ourselves

(Or at least of myself-
I wonder why
I've only ever been truly drawn to
people
By their brokenness...

But perhaps it's better
Not to think about it.)

abaonded by the insinciere
genuine in being ingenuine
my tears
tainted pain that hurts as much as the curling rods hot touch
visible scars serve as inadquted interpretations of the slef inflicted torture
but is it self inflicted?
self inflicted if you were the one that inflicted so much pain in the first place
hours and hours of agony
oh how one longs for the hot rod to take her away from such agony
(get used to being burned, when the devil has his turn)

don't touch me!
ur affection holds none
only using me to get what others can not give to you
                                 wont give you
i want to scream at the affect of your touch
just like the curling rod
just like the knife
just like the razor,
pills,
rope,
needles,
that take my life
you cut into me worse then them all
but i let you
because hurting is 10times better than not hurting at all.

-The Effects of Sarrow

A hitchhiker
On the interstate of love.
It seems,
I am always hanging my thumb out
Searching for something real.
Anything real.
In what seems to me,
A very sad and ingenuine world.
Just as I thought I'd found meaning.
And for those I have loved,
Those I have left, or have gone from me
Was it your or I?

The want to be free.

The relentless
Ingenuine serenades,
Empty
Swirling around my ears
As I try
To encompass
Your entirety,
What energy we share
For your tireless
Unfelt soothsaying
To pile around
Unreceived.

Serenade me,
Whether we share or not,
For I will let peel
The layers of your serenade
And watch
As the energy unveils.
But know that when
Your words are empty,
You should leave.
Because I'm
Beginning to have enough.

It feels ingenuine
presumptuous,
I can call myself a
writer, painter, pianist, singer
but when I create something
and want to share it with the world
I have to give it away.
It belongs to You now-
and it's your place to decide
whether or not
you are moved
compelled
offended
or not.

And if you are
oh criticus prudentibus
You've made it- art.