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I’ve ******* lost all of my **** marbles
I don’t find a spec of solace in any online articles
For the life of me, I cannot predict many of my neuronic particles
But I have to get out of bed in the morning like you do because I have **** to do too.

I don’t know who I am or who I want to be
I’ve spent my whole life mirroring rap lyrics and people on tv
Every word I speak feels like a desperate plea
I just want to feel at home someday, somewhere

What other people have, I desperately crave
I know for a fact there are many social groups I cannot infiltrate
People give me pity and call me sweet, I’d rather have hate
But I don’t see it happening since I don’t often provoke any strong feeling

To be hated, better than being tolerated, I suspect
I put so much effort in and that’s why I fail tests
I can empathize, listen, sacrifice, and jest,
But people want friends, not servants

Self-deprecating as I am, I love being I
I love being wrong, **** being wise
When I get serious, I look people in the eyes,
So maybe I’ll start doing that more often.
I'm so lonely and it feels like there is nothing I can do about it.
How could I convince myself that it would be ok to find someone to be with in a physical way, knowing that I am just using them to make these miserable loneliness feelings go away?
What am I doing wrong to cause these feelings to relentlessly incinerate my mind every night?
Why does my desire to be close to someone else override my instincts, dull my sense of priority, and numb my enthusiasm for life?
What kind of person am I if I am ruled by pleasure-seeking cravings that probably can only be temporarily satisfied anyway?
When will the time come when these lustful alarms ringing in my mind calm down enough to disguise themselves, allowing me to pretend to not be a desperate love-starved clingy loser who can never escape the top of my own priority list, no matter how many other things compete with being close with women who I am attracted to?
When will I live and breathe through a day without thinking about ways to find myself in situations with women who I am attracted to, knowing all the while that my toxicity stands a more-than-fair chance of either running them away or misrepresenting myself to manipulate until I can no longer hide who I disgustingly am?
What will it take to quell my constant need for approval and attention?
How will I ever satisfy this desire, anyway, since I am consistently attracted to women who have no interest in approving of who I am and humoring or ignoring women who see me as a good person?
What am I doing chasing women who don't want to be with me?
Why do I think that if I keep texting, complimenting, or joking with girls who I am attracted to, they will suddenly find me completely attractive, even though they clearly don't?
How low would I have to go to be more interested in unraveling a girl physically instead of thinking about getting to know her, understanding her mind, and prioritizing her own interests and well-being above all else?
Why does my lustful and obsessive nature have to so strongly contradict my ability to behave in a way that makes me sexually attractive?
Why do I selfishly choose to express myself even though the only person who benefits from it is me and everyone else either laughs at me and thinks I'm a fool or decides to smile and walk away since I am not giving them any benefit?
What kind of person would be attracted to a passive reluctant caring individual such as myself, and then remain attracted to me when they learn that I am truly a passionate aggressive obsessive over-the-top unstable rambler?
What am I supposed to do if the years go by and I keep adding questions to my list of insecurities and my perseverance in this constantly losing battle fades away?
What am I supposed to tell my family and friends and grandparents when they ask me if I have been meeting any girls?
How can I try to sell myself to girls knowing what a toxic mess I am?
How can I try to sell myself to girls knowing how frequently girls who get close to me no longer want to spend time with me?
Why does everyone look at me with pity?
Why do I keep chasing girls who don't love me, or like me, or think I am sexually attractive, at all?
Why do I think I deserve that?
Why do I tumble around with fear in my head instead of getting up and doing something about the lust that I feel?
Why can't I participate in hook-up culture?
Who would really care if I did?
Why can't I go into it imagining that I will just ignore the person I hookup with and hope that they reciprocate and ignore me so that they don't have to realize how dumb I am?
Why can't I be charismatic enough to at least have some friends with whom I have ****** relationships with and not get carried away with?
Why do I take everything so seriously?
Why do I still feel like I did seven years ago?
Why do I still have the same obsessions?
How am I so mature in some ways and so stunted in others?
How come I excel in areas of my life that I don't care about at all and I can't even come close to being successful in the ones that I really do care about?
Why does being sexually attractive mean so much to me even though I already reject girls who find me attractive?
Why am I so shallow?
Why do I question and mourn the decisions girls who I am attracted to make when I hypocritically do the exact same thing to girls who are attracted to me?
When did I become such a hypocrite?
Why am I so happy and joyous and optimistic for the people I love when I don't have what I want?
If I got what I wanted, would I just take it for granted like I do everything else and then just want more, or want something else?
Why are we so greedy?
What am I going to do with my life when my lust declines and I no longer have a humongous problem to obsess over?
Why is this problem so consuming that I can't just ignore it and try to be normal like people do, and like I usually do?
Why do all of these thoughts form during the day and then explode all over my perception at night?
Will I ever be ready to love someone?
Will I ever be ready to love someone and not be selfish?
Will I ever love someone who loves me back?
Is love just mutual ****** attraction with linguistic agreements and complacency?
Will I ever love someone who doesn't eventually hate me?
Am I made to do everything but be a romantic partner?
Is there something absolutely wrong with me that I am in denial about?
Do I seriously need to become more self-aware? I doubt it.
Will I ever be enough for someone who I want to be enough for?
Could I maybe even be more than enough?
Can I increase my worth to make these problems go away?
Do I constantly put myself in these situations and relationships to torture myself?
Will I eventually give up?
Would that be good?
Will I ever learn?
Will I ever change?
Does doing stuff like this hurt me or help me?
Does it help you?
I am on a roller-coaster of fear, insecurity, loneliness, lust, and depression and I can't believe how many emotions I have.
I'm so lonely and it feels like there is nothing I can do about it.
It tasted good only because you made it. Fear. Tragedy. Hope. Inevitability. Knowing it will all be over. Soon. The last time you see someone. The first time you see someone. The space in between. Finite. Always. The idea of a person in your mind. Forever. Always. Only sometimes on the surface. Often in the back of your mind. Forgotten for some time. Then thought about for one last time too. Tragedy. The last time you think of someone. Far away. Warmth. Blanket. Something you haven't told anyone. Saying it. Feeling like it's ok. Knowing it's ok. Knowing it's ok to be open. Opening. Breathing from the back of your mind where you don't usually go. Riveting. Rare. The moments where it is deep. Crying. Laughing. Laughing to avoid crying. Holding a box of tissues. Tears. Fear. Hope. Gratitude. Thrill. Empathy. Thinking about what to say. Not thinking about what to say. Hope. Trust. Honesty. Not having to think about what to say. Freedom. Freedom from fear. Freedom from manipulation. Freedom from judgment. Freedom from yourself. Knowing what it means to connect with someone. Knowing what it means. Gift. Blessing. Miracle. A gift nobody can take away from you. Information. Experience. Beauty. Disappearing. Disappearing, but having to have existed in the first place in order to disappear. Wonderful. Crying. Tears. Knowing what is going to happen in the future. Knowing separation is inevitable. Knowing sorrow. Knowing inevitability. Knowing what is best. Knowing what you want is not what you get. Knowing experiences. Knowing memories. Knowing closeness. Knowing warmth. Knowing fear. Knowing freedom. Knowing beauty. Knowing empathy. Knowing freedom from yourself. Knowing miracles. Knowing someone. Knowing you.
Can I do you a favor?
Once we longed for time to slow, and once we longed for time to pass,
We realized that resistance is futile.
We thought we saw our lives laid out before our eyes and we said, "It's coming. It's coming whether I want it to or not. It's coming at a constant rate whether I want it to or not. It's coming at a constant rate whether I want it to or not, and there's nothing I can do about it. It's coming whether I want it to or not, and there's nothing I can do about it because time on Earth is without our control absolutely."

And so we began. Life builds on life and the new behaviors and traditions are variations of behaviors and traditions past. So then we built schools and said, "This is your life. This is your path. This is what you want. This is the way. This is the life. It's coming."

We face challenges and run through systems and jump through hoops made by other people. Our leaders, our societies past, the powerful among us, have built systems. Whether we like them or not, we are, usually, a part of them. Go to school, go to more school or get a job. And suddenly, we are on a ride that we made that itself is on a ride that we did not make. We go through systems we made that were built within systems we did not make. We go through our processes and survive over time while we move through time. We live in time while time lives in us.

The systems we made dominate the world. And they grow. Whether we like it or not. The system and time, finite and infinite, variable and constant, controllable and uncontrollable, these are the two forces that guide us. Take what you can while reaching out the windows and although you, honestly, can get out whenever you want, both are worth staying on for. Both are worth staying on for. We share it and we always are all together. Society and time. A ride on a ride.
We don't always get the poems that we want.
Sometimes we get the poems that we need.
Sometimes we get poems we can only read once.
Sometimes we write poems and the words bleed

Through the page or shine through the screen
Because they let us admit to ourselves we have low self-esteem
Although we have self love and it all doesn't mean,
It just lives inside us, surviving feeding on dreams

All the words I write, hundred poems I've rambled
Instead of playing more games, instead of flipping more channels,
I write these words for you in an attempt to light a candle
To ever so slightly brighten your life that you CAN handle

Poetry, words, arrangements, collections
All brought together by love and affection,
Various sorts, but the ones most prominent
Are the ones that I feel that are also ominous

Like I just want to write, and it feels sort of dark
And the words sometimes shed light by breaking my heart
And taking what I thought I knew, and then tearing that apart
But from the breaks I grow, the breaks where I make art

Although it's hardly art to me, I still sit and write
I might as well when all my other acts yield nothing, slighted.
No offense to them, but they're not always invited
To the space inside my heart because they don't yield products

More often than not, I'm just a simple consumer
Trying to amuse or numb myself with the fastest lights, sooner
And once the lights turn out, I turn off and sleep
And inside me, something really deep cries out,

It asks me, "What do you make? Who do you help?
What do you save? Where's your progress? What have you done?
Do you have any answers? Do you even have one?"
Yes. I just write poems and try to help people,
And it feels pretty good sometimes.
Light snow. Warm blanket. Helping. Typing. Looking outside. Looking inside. Warmth. Gross. Sticky. Old. Unattractive. Alone. Looking into a window full of people who can help you. Alone. Not trusting yourself. Cars go by. Quickly. Alone. Every mind and every car. One. The life a snowflake lives as it falls. Gone. Looking into someone's eyes. Running away. Wondering what someone sees in your eyes. Wishing its what they want. Wishing its not what you think. Alone. Not trusting yourself. Hoping there's a different life ahead. Some time. Possibly in the near future. Alone. Times of feeling with other people. Together. Not trusting yourself. Lying. Rejecting. Foolishly complaining. Alone. Snowflakes moving upwards, back towards the sky, because of the wind. Unrealistic. Calm relaxing music. Fear. Alone. Not trusting yourself. Multiple voices telling you to do different things. Together. Alone. Being stuck between survival options and dying. Alone. Wanting to call out but doubting the purity of your own intentions. Knowing everyone else has a life that is not yours. Knowing everyone else has a life that is full of things they want to do. Independent. Without you mostly. Mostly wanting to not bother anyone. Alone. Not trusting yourself. Asking for help indirectly. Making sure that the person has a way to back out. Escape. Pretend they can't see what is happening. Not seeing what is happening. Not trusting yourself. Alone. The ground that looks unaffected by the snow. The ground that stays and is sometimes buried, but it always comes back. Even. Fair. Thinking about how many people feel. Thinking about what people feel. Wanting specific things. Wanting to talk to specific people. Having trouble trusting people. Not trusting yourself. Alone. Sitting. Music. Typing. Nothing. Papers. Time. Life. Together. Snow. Trust. Ground. Trees. Harm. Fear. Running. Escape. Annoy. Harass. Pretend. Turning. Playing. Focusing. Trust. Away. Fear. Together. Alone.
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