I've tried every drug I could get my hands on;
I've tried every hobby that interest me;
I've tried to play every instrument loud;
but, none could save me.

I've raised the base of every bottle,
but, that, not even that could save me.
I've drenched my body with countless glasses -
glasses full of hangovers, and that -
even that cannot save me.

I've tried everything, yet -
the feeling of loneliness is the loudest,
and nothing seems to save me from it.
It's weighing heavy on my chest, and I'm hoping;
hoping someone, something, anything -
saves me from this stagnant, empty feeling of worthlessness.

“Don't you miss being in love?”, she asks.
I simmer, gathering myself  and my thoughts.

No, I don't, because I have not been in love;
Not in the manner I imagine it.
I have loved - beautifully, might I add -
But never have I been in love.

How can I have?
At my best, all I knew was to compel, persuasively,
someone into loving me -
the best possible way I knew how.
I revealed just enough of myself,
the beautiful of myself,
the parts of me that drew butterflies.

Hidden were the broken parts of me,
those which keep me awake, sleepless -
'til the moon kisses me goodnight,
in the last hours before dawn.

I am not, by any means, denying ever loving.
I have loved, blindly and beautifully.
All I have ever been good at was loving -
loving someone into loving me,
the best way possible.

But, all of their love was inadequate.
A love which always fell short of loving me,
the best way possible.

Love; inadequate:
Unable to express loving me,
unable to express themselves of loving me.

In turn,
I was slapped with sloppy efforts of loving me -
Vague inadequacies of love.
It was never enough, not remotely close,
to what I had imaged loving me would be.
It was short of ever arousing me internally,
short of wits to spiral me into being in love.

And so, how can I miss being in love,
when it has always been a feeling that eluded me?
How can I miss being in love, when in love -
I concealed the broken parts of me?
How can I have been in love when I was lonely, in love?

How can I have been in love,
when all I knew of being in love was to love myself -
by loving whomever loved the aesthetic parts of me?

Loving me has always been an infatuation -
an infatuation of the broken pieces of me,
coming together to create an illusion of a love -
an unsatisfactory love for loving me.

How can I have ever been in love when no one has known,
expressed, conjured the best possible way of loving me.
All of me.

Once more, up at the last hours before dawn -
awaiting the moon to kiss me goodnight, I tell her.

Usually, I let words come to me,
tonight; however,
I am going to formulate something.

I am tired of whining about love - the lack of it,
really;
in my life.

Tonight, I'll whine about, countlessly, contemplating.
Countlessly desiring;
countlessly yearning;
For - your physical touch.

My placement of my hands on yours.
My placement of my hands on your body.
My placement of my lips on yours.
My placement of my lips on every crevice of your body.

Tonight; I whine about yearning to touch you.
I whine about your lips, softly - sensually;
rubbing on my face, lowering -
Mine, rubbing on your forehead - as you lower;
down -
my body.

Tonight; I whine about my lips, yearning -
the taste of your body.
Your skin rubbing against my tongue;
Your skin, satisfying my taste buds.

Tonight; I whine about the love my body has for yours.
The love in need of no words;
the love only touch understands.

Tonight; My body wants yours.
I hope you are shivering, in hope -
that our bodies will quench the thirst causing tension between us.

I don't know how to whine or cry about it.
It feels like misery.
Something I deserve, something I don't deserve.

I don't know;
Is it all the sins of being hopelessly romantic? -
That the one time I find myself the ideal mate,
I lose her; for my sins. I blame my sins.
My wasteful sins.

I've wasted many-a-hearts.
Unrequited.
Not interested.
Really.

There she was. I was standing in front of a mirror.
Alone. There she was.
In a dress, long hair, a smile, tantalizing lips;
my personality, my interests, my views; a recluse - we.

Yet, alone in front of this mirror, it was She I saw.
Not I.
Her. I saw her.
She was me. I was her. We were I.
At least in the sense - in my sense - we were I.
I saw myself in her. I saw us in her. I saw her in us.
It was confusing; Aren't opposites suppose to attract?
Yet, there I was, attracted to the female version of my own mirror image.
She was refreshing. I had been alone. I am alone.
There she was, an image of me. I want to be alone with her.
I wanted.

Thing is;
Love is a minor - always childish - always unrequited.
Everything I saw was everything that never presented itself to her.
I found myself caught in an deceitful delusion.
I conformed myself into a conforming.
She was the idea that was not an idea - but became THE idea.
I saw perfect in her. Perfect in everything that was not perfect.
I saw love in everything that was not loveable.
I saw time in everything that was not worth my time.
I saw us in everything that was not us. It was never us.
She - I, trapped in a delusion.

I saw everything I wanted, but love is a minor - childish.
Everything I want was for someone else to have.
She was for someone else to have. Someone else has her.

And I;
I am alone.
I have no 'her'.
No She.

I should be laying beside you,
with my hand between your legs,
my head on your ***** - while listening to you
murmur out your dreams.

I should be laying beside you,
carving your sleeping body
with things I would like us to do;
to each other when you wake up.

I should be laying beside you,
listening to you tell me about the times;
in your life;
when you and I were strangers.

I should be laying beside you;
for when you and I were born,
the empty sides of our beds -
are place holders for when we are finally together.

I should be laying beside you,
because that’s where I want to be right now;
juxtaposed your body.

How can you expect someone to love you -
when you are not the person they wanted?
When all you are is a substitute;
filling a vacancy left open by the person
they wish to be with.

How can you be enough to a person
who is never impressed by any of your efforts?
A person who sees all your expressions of love,
as inadequate coming from you?

How can you be appreciated by a person
who sees your eccentricities as flaws?
A person who attempts to appropriate anything,
and everything unique about you.

How can you be worth meaning a great deal
to a person who sees no value in you?
A person who is prejudicial without remorse.

How can you be worth loving
when you struggle to love yourself?
When life has flagellated your self-esteem;
when depression has left you void of any jubilation,
and left you with an overwhelming emptiness
and nights of crying-induced sleep?

At my best, the love I give is not reciprocated.
The person I am is not celebrated.
The emptiness within me seeks solace in recluse.

Where do I begin? -
- Is a sentence even enough?

Excitement, odd excitement;
- my initial response.

The sort of excitement a parent has,
over hearing their young utter their first, full word.

That thrilling excitement, which overwhelms you;
as you sit and engaged in your first adult conversation,
with your parents.

Where do I even begin?
- the concealed excitement,
at your first date.

The introverted excitement you have -
as you tap your feet, while squandering a conversation,
with your first love.

But, where do I begin, I contemplated.

The excitement, a foolish one at that,
that makes you sing out your favourite love song;
while aware of the fact you are an awful singer.

The excitement, that nervous, yet squirm in excitement -
as you lean in for your first kiss.

What was your question?
I asked of her to reiterate.

Wandering, contemplating.
How she could sound so pleasant and ****,
while she maunders?

Excitement? I ask, rhetorically.
As I wonder how she sounds so beautiful,
without making any sense.

That kind of excitement.

But, she enquired for a single sentence.

I had more than one.

So, to single one out, I breathed slowly, paused;
- Can I get an endless day, where I am excited to be in your presence?

It was your voice, at first;
How you sounded -
Happy, but not complete.
Maybe you were and
I wasn't. I'm not.

Then, it was your eyes.
A cosmic gaze, but not too complex.
*****, but inviting exploration.
Dark, but lit a way -
brown, of an autumn sunset.

Then, it was your smile.
Small, but big enough to glare -
Often painted red with love,
A smile which stood out like sunflowers;
whenever you showed it.

Again, it was your voice;
How soft it became at 4am,
husky, when it loved me -
and loud, when it missed me.

Then, it was your hair.
The beauty of it fell over your shoulders;
Like artwork, when you waved it off your face;
to, again -
show off a smile that stands out,
eyes, that prompt being explored -
and a voice that demands being heard.

And, then, you told me your name.
Its meaning, light -
and it all made sense;
how you've illuminated my life -
from that first sound of your voice,
‘hello’.

It hurts when it ends.
When everything you have ever needed,
decides it no longer needs you.

When it ends, it's the beginning you think of.
That first memory of it -
a precious bliss;
like sunshine, after a storm.

When it begins, it does not say when it'll end.
It never disclaims the pain you'll go through.
It promises happiness, and joy.
It promises forever.
And when it ends, it's the storm that is forever.
A storm that floods your insides with an eternal agony.

For, when it ends, you wonder;
how can this end -
when it is everything you have ever loved,
and needed?

It has become impossible -
to be optimistic, about love.

Each day goes down as the last.
Each night is as cold as the next.
Each venture collapses as the last.
There is no sustainable pleasure,
no sense.

Love has become a cynical public display.
It's not the love I grew up desiring from what I heard from poets.
It's not the love I grew up to treasure and search for.
This love is materialistic; a show off.
This is madness, not love.

This love is for puppets.
It's for two soulless individuals; figurines.
This love has no meaning;
no romance;
no affection.
This love is not for me.

The love I desire would never be completed -
if it were to be written.
But I will - someday,
write that love, and carve it with my lips;
on her, who will wake up beside me;
each morning;
and lay beside me, each evening.

May I wrap my tongue with words I struggle to say out loud, and kiss you instead?

There is a certain beauty about the uncertainty of life,
prominence in the assumption that anything's possible.
The daily routines we embark on;
goal-setting, chasing dreams, breaking hearts,
mending broken hearts, emotional turmoil: happy highs,
sad lows, anger towards our failures.
An endless cycle of uncertainty, yet we push on.

There is beauty in that, the uncertainty, so I perceive it.
I love subtle beauty, it opens your mind up.
Aesthetics are not the only beauty, in my eyes.
There is beauty in the stumble and stagger of
a broken heart.
There is beauty in the defeat from an exhausting day.
Beauty in falling out of love, exempting yourself out
of agony.
Beauty in scathing through, barely afloat, to make ends meet.

Beauty, it may as well be that.
Life is open to all sorts of possibilities;
there is beauty in the fact we push on in spite of the hurdles -
push on in the face of struggle and defeat,
push on when everything's going well, of course,
push on when our dreams fail and need altering.
The beauty of life is not in romanticising struggle,
but in that there is strength within all of us;
a strength that fails to yield in the face of defeat.
We are beauty for pushing on.

I would love to meet all of my selves;
To dine with, and hold clarifying conversations.
I have long been wary of my many personalities,
embraced them, and cherished each one of them.

I wish I could individually meet each one of them.
To hear them introduce themselves;
To hug me and comment on the pleasure of meeting me.
To understand them, as seperate persons outside of me.
To hear their stories,
what groomed who they are;
to hear about their days,
and talk about their feelings;
for them to tell me if I give them enough of me.
Do they even like me, or like being a part of me?

They mould who I am;
They are who I am.
They carry me when I am at my weakest;
They are weak with me, cry with me -
laugh with me, love with me,
and wander with me, at 3:55 am.

Would I enjoy them,
and want them to remain a part of my life?
Are they individuals with stories,
who also need to be heard?
Part of being understood is being heard.

We learn new things about ourselves all the time;
Maybe, that is how we meet our own selves:
In Epiphanies about our identities.

The emptiness visits as dusk begins to fade away.
The loneliness awakens to indulge your thoughts.
The sadness rinses your eyes,
and you begin to converse with the thoughts;
thoughts that continue to manifest 'til your body aches.

You lay, achingly;
tears leaving your face with marks.
Thoughts, rumbling like an endless drum-roll.
Your insides, sore,
chest, tightening -
breathing, difficult.
Your hands, limbs, trembling uncontrollably.

A feeling unexplainable if never felt.

This emptiness hurts -
this feeling of constant melancholia and worthlessness,
this shedding of tears,
this pain - hurts.

Somehow, the body manages to shut down;
you find peace in your sleep -
a peace that is disturbed every hour 'til you wake.

You wake to relive the nightmare of yesterday;
Aching, pondering why you continue to hold on.
Holding on 'til the inevitable happens.

Was it the sound of my loud thoughts that troubled me?
Was it the echo - the chirping - of her voice?
Was it the image of her, her.
Was it the fable of her?
Was it her for not existing?
That loud, chirping-echoing voice; the loud thought -
Was is her, her, her who does not exist.

Being so hopeless in romance, by now;
I would have thought I'd be in love.
I should have found her.

Her.

She is beautiful;
I find her beautiful;
She finds me beautiful for finding her beautiful.
I think she is beautiful.
She is beautiful.
She is;

She has a name.
I want to know her name.
I am screaming, in agony, her name.
What is her name?
I want to know her name.

She has no name,
But she is special - she is;
There is something about her smile - her laughter;
And her smile, again - there is something about that smile;
It's beautiful.
I love staring at her, catching her gazing at me - she smiles;
I love that smile; I love that she is smiling.

But who is she;
Who is... her?
There is no her.
She does not exist.
She exists.
I have not met her, yet;
I have not. I want to. But I have not - not yet;

In this loud silence;
The loneliness is loud, it's a disturbance.
Because of her, I miss her;
There is no her.

Not yet.
And the Lonely is loud. It's a landmark;
I am cold, even on the warmest of days; I - I - am cold;
I am cold, because I do not have her.

Quite accustomed to misery and pain,
and in agony -
I ruin anything good,
it seems.

I don't know how to handle happiness.
It overwhelms me with its untimely visits.
Its stay, always short -
and our goodbyes bring me to my knees,
begging for it to stay.

So accustomed to melancholy -
and crying to sleep;
so spoiled with feelings of worthlessness -
I'm unappreciative of anything good,
it seems.

I don't know how to handle a genuine love.
It overwhelms me with its joyful sensation.
Its pleasure, the heart scorching romance;
and I, in my misery and pain,
and on my knees -
hoping for it to stay.

Quite accustomed to loneliness,
and emptiness -
I ruin anything good,
it seems.

Sometimes, what hurts is not just losing love -
but the reality of losing your best friend, your world.
Losing the person you've spent many-a-time making memories with;
the only person in the world you felt a sense of belonging with.

Sometimes, what hurts most is watching things fall apart -
rooted to the ground, you are unable to hold on to your slipping love.

Nights you would spend conversing with your love;
planning your future memories,
enjoying the night-sky together -
now turned to nights of sorrow, loneliness and heartache.

Sometimes, what hurts most is knowing you are responsible for everything that went wrong.

I was young when I first met her -
a teenager, and getting a hang of it.
I'd like to think I smiled more, back then.

I don't recall much before her -
even the little I remember feels surreal.

I had just experienced the sweetness of a first love -
staying up all night speaking on the phone,
exchanging silly, cute love messages read on the internet.
It was adorable, I tell myself.
Teenage love often is.

Then I met her.
She was quiet, and timid.
We barely saw each other -
but she was always on my mind.

At first, she'd only visit in the evenings.
As we grew closer to each other, she was around more.
She would swoop me away from friends -
she was jealous, and wanted me only to herself.
I was not cognisant of how jealous her love was.

She hated it if I was smiling, or laughing without her.
She hated it when I went to visit places without her.
She would be mad at me, if I did anything without her,
and I would cry myself to sleep.

So, to love her best and to make her happy;
I stopped smiling, or laughing without her.
I stopped going to places without her.
And I cried to sleep, even if she was not mad at me.

When I met her, she never gave me her name.
But I asked, I had to know her name.

Her name is Depression,
and I wish I never met her.

You took away my poems.
You took away my journal entries.
You took away my writings.

But, in return, you gave me happiness.
You gave me a best friend, a lover.
You gave me someone who sees beyond my pain,
who sees strength in my weaknesses.

You took away my loneliness.
You took away my solitude.
You took away my habits.

And gave me someone to spend my time with.
You gave me new habits, good habits.
In my darkness, you gave me moonlight.

Love; you may have taken away things I dwelled in,
in my recluse, but, in return,
you have given me internal joy;
someone who picked up pieces of me,
made a collage, and calls it beautiful.

I don't know how much longer I can hold on.
Hold on to feeling worthless -
hold on to an emptiness.
That is what life is for me;
Empty worthlessness.

It gets better, they say,
those who found meaning.
It gets worse, I say in return.
It gets worse living in my skin.
It gets worse with each waking day.

There is an unwanted tenant living in my mind -
one that keeps drowning me with the air I breathe.
The pain worsens with each fighting manoeuvre.
It feels like my body is rejecting me -
rejecting my mind.
I don't blame it, even I have had enough.

It's difficult to accept being like this -
I try to fight it,
but the joy of living has been ****** out of me.
This emptiness leaves me wondering -
wondering,
how much more of this pain I can take.

In this world, only two things are perfect;
The world spinning on its axis,
And the sun shining at its fullest.

Everything else isn't -
Rains falls as you fix yourself up,
preparing for that date she finally said yes to.
It snows -
the day you decide to finally leave your room.
And you lose someone important,
on the evening your tears are the heaviest.

There is no being perfect in an imperfect world.
Flowers grow on solid concrete pavements.
Rivers aren't enough -
for plants to survive the wreckage of Autumn.
And you lean in for a kiss, to be met with a friendly hug.

You make time for people who are too busy for you.
You make friends with strangers you'll never meet.
And you find out you are allergic to shellfish -
while on a quest to try out new things.

In this world, only one other thing is perfect:
Imperfections.

Giving you up,
You belong to the world -

not with me.

the world keeps turning;
with each turn,
I
in turn
turn away from you
and your awfulness
your ways
your rejection of me.

you enjoyed stumbling
recklessly falling and breaking;
whatever remained of my love
- my awful, broken love.

with each sunset -
I see you - setting with it
being the darkness that is my discomfort
the pain that lingers on
eating bits of me.

you are clumsy -
a person of the world
- I
well, I
- a person of the boundaries
of the tortured soul
that clings on the sanity
that is, love

the world has you -
I have nothing - nothing
that is you.

- nothing of you;
******.
The world has you - not I.

I'm single, a recluse;
all because a great personality isn't -
aesthetically pleasing.

I used to believe I knew how to love.
I understood romance, and
the beauty and genuinity of affection.
I was wrong.

I was wrong;
wrong in my understanding of love.
Wrong for believing, impractically,
in the idealisation of a romantic love.

It has become apparent to me -
that love, in meaning,
and understanding,
is about what you can do for another.
It is not affection, affirmation;
support, acceptance, romance;
but, that love is conditional -
until your being can no longer do for someone.

For being so wrong,
wrong in my perception of love -
it has left a bitter-tasting question:
do I know love, and how to give a love,
that only has meaning - and value -
only when you have tangible gain?

What is left of our human emotion,
of the value of abstract feeling,
of a smile, of the journey of knowing,
learning, admiring; a person.
and being hopelessly overt in passion,
interest, intrigue and attraction;
the genuinity of being wholeheartedly,
fanatically, in love with a person.

If the meaning of love is only valued
by what a person can do for you;
do I really want to give a love of that
insignificance?

It is easier to focus on the past.
It's a lived experience, and the future makes us apprehensive;
And we live and have shared experiences,
And experience people in a new way every day.

But, often, we focus on perfection.
Things have to be perfect;
And, yet, often, we remind ourselves there is no such thing as perfect.

But, perhaps, there is.

Perhaps we are all perfect, but
We are imperfect when we meet another's perfect.
We begin to project our own selves, unfairly, unto the other person.
We call it flaws; she is flawed for not meeting my perfect.
And that is not fair.

We are but strangers, after all.
The great adventure would be to acknowledge another's individuality.
To explore them, wholly, without idealising our ideas of perfect on them.

There is fond joy in being wholly accepted for the person you are,
Instead of what people wish for you to be.
To be understood for your unique individualism,
Instead of being critiqued for your eccentric nature.

I am, but imperfect and flawed when not wholly accepted for being me.

Can we blame anyone for our insecurities
and low self-esteems?
Are they self-inflicted, or a result of having our true selves continuously rejected?
Having to constantly alter yourself to fit a societal model that is appreciated and accepted.

Are we projecting too much hurt?
To the point there is no more good to feel within and about our own selves?
Are we wallowing in sadness and imperfections,
that we feel unable to find joy in anything?

Who am I supposed to blame -
blame for no longer wanting to go outside because I feel filthy inside when people gaze at me?
Their stares look more like laughter -
laughter at the insecurities weighing heavy and breaking my posture.

I am not perfect, but I am not flawed.
The world may have given up on loving me;
loving me for my uniqueness and authenticity,
but I will never overcome my brokenness if I give up on loving myself -
and for that love to suffice;
but concede to the societal standard:
I am not acceptable, or wanted.

The odd thing about love is the ease in which it engulfs you.
You can easily find yourself an expatriate of your isolated experiences.
It is beautiful - to exist in a world of your fond choosing, with a love who cherishes every moment with you.
It is deluding.
It ends.


In its end,
it is disappointing.

Love feels like standing on the edge of a cliff - a cliff sufficiently masked with fog - and jumping, hoping a safety net is at the bottom.
In my leap, love broke every piece of me;
Love suffocated me.