Dear Mon chéri,
I wrote you one thousand words
And you sent me back three
I sent you a letter
Hoping you’d get back to me
Days went by ——
And a few centuries…
Several months passed ——
Then an eternity…
I counted the hours
Waited impatiently…
Then,
You might’ve replied
One word
Two words
Three
I write back a million more
But then it’s the same thing
A million words unread
And my books you didn’t read
That I dedicated to you
And you only. Indeed.
But dear Mon Chéri,
I like you.
I think?
Sincerely, <3 (heart: less than three)


And to whomever it may concern :)

I found ten reasons to hate myself and you gave me ten more
Then that sum manifested and multiplied by four
All of the things from the twenty before
Distorted into something ugly that I continued to explore
So it made twenty more new ones and now one hundred’s the score
Its all just a cycle, a never-ending encore
With a total too whole and complete to ignore
With all these reasons nothing is complete
Ugly and incomplete

If I wander any more,
then I’ve seen and felt everything
When I wander I’m at war
Fighting voices in the boxing ring
Why I wander, I’m not sure
I don’t wander for anything
But I’m not lost, I really could never be
Those people with chains they scowl at me
Whose chains would weigh my wandering feet
Purple with bruises by the terrain they meet
Longevity, I do not wander in futility
Wondering, do I wander aimlessly?
Wandering, naught but a title of vagrancy
If not with a purpose, I wander purposefully
But I’m not lost, I never was, I never will be

I wrote you a book
You threw it under your bed
You skipped over the pictures
And skimmed what it said
You don’t read
But you’re not illiterate
If I sang you a song
With harmonious lyrics  
All of the little bits
Would bang your ear drum
And an apt, vain outcome
You’re the moon
You’re not the brightest
And you haven’t even the slightest
Idea of what
I’m trying to tell you, but
When you stop pretending
That this unending
Never-ending cycle
Of trying to make you feel
What I want you to feel
Has been really imaginary
Then I’ll be the most
Successful writer
But once again
I wish you would read my book

My tear ducts are like leaky faucets trickling against the inferno that infests my eyes

Wind gusts tease and bellow the flames that engulf my pupils

With each wink and blink the droplets dance atop the hellish fumes

Direly tranquilizing the fiery daggers that pierce my eyes

What if you were God?
You could find my prayers addressed to you unsent,
You could laugh at the hysterical things I’ve dreamt,
You could spy on where I am and where I’ve went,
The things I’ve done and the things I’ve yet,
The things I cherish or want to forget,
And in the end I don’t want to repent.
When the end comes, I don’t want to repent.

At 830 PM
I think and then
I think too much
And think of them
I can't sleep
I think to sleep
I think of you
I think of me
I think that
I think at
The worst times
My worst times
Times that happened
Times I want to happen
Time that ends
Times that began
Times where I had no more time
I had no more rhymes
To make a poem make sense