Feelings,
those insidious little things.
They ******, make you squirm,
sneak in unawares,
make nebulous all that is firm.

Feelings,
those traitorous little things.
They lift you up, make you float
then change without a warning
and sink the **** boat.

Feelings,
those warm little darlings.
With you through harmony or strife,
your companions, they let you
revel in the drama called life.

I'm kinda bad at making friends
but even worse at keeping them.
Hold everyone at a distance,
when they leave put up no resistance.
I know I will say goodbye soon,
to even those I'm closest to.
Compartmentalize, tell aimless lies,
never truly look into their eyes.
Loneliness is self inflicted.
The death of friendship isn't only predicted,
but anticipated and orchestrated.
Over and over this has been demonstrated.
Apathy feeds isolation,
causing me to turn from anyone
who turns even slightly away from me.
Now, isolation feeds apathy,
I move on so quickly from the friends I lose,
and so you see the cycle continues.

Is it that the rage consumes me
So wholly when she speaks,
That I become numb?

I know the things she says
Are spat out for the sole purpose of making me feel regret.
I know that no matter how much it feels like it,
She doesn’t say just to tear me down.

But because I've done something wrong.
Even if it doesn’t feel wrong,
But,
Maybe she just doesn’t see it the way i do.

Because what she considers concern,
I think of as pestering.
Maybe that's our biggest divide,
Maybe not.

She asks me,
What will my boyfriend think,
If she told him all the horrible things I'd done before I met him.
And I laugh.

Because he told me not to tell her,
That although she has a good idea,
I'm a much more hideous person than she thinks.
That had she known,

She would understand when she first met me,
Why I was waiting for the ground to swallow me whole,
Why I was constantly looking for the worst possible thing out there.
To keep me as miserable as humanly possible,
Until the day I finally laid down to die.

So I look at her and consider telling her,
Until she gets agitated and starts yelling again.
And I wonder if I had never met him would I have already done it?

Would I have burned the image of my ruptured veins,
In her brain?

Because the thought of seeing her reaction,
Has always ignited something in me.
Of course it would be in her,
That I would find the irony of feeling alive as I die

And I thought about it,
I thought about it a lot,
Concluding that the best way to do it
Would be slashing my throat,

To let her feel the warmth of my blood,
Spurting out and soak in it.

What I would give to see her face then.

Delivered, not read:
my best words left unsaid.
I chose them just for you
hand-picked them,
turned each one over
to inspect with a secret smile
as I thought of you
inspecting them too.
Was such a fine letter
ever written for you?

I threw caution to the wind
when I dropped my words
in your letter box
and waited patiently
for them to find you.

Then you
with your casual apathy
and your cool disregard
dropped steele-blue eyes
on the unopened envelope
and did not break the seal
or think of it twice.

To this day
it must still be on your coffee table
a piece of rubble
beneath piles of junk mail
a scrap paper
upon which you scribble notes
beneath the ashtray
that collects your used butts.

You never did care
for sentimental things
and I never knew
I was one of them.

Burned lips, charcoal lungs prowling for a breath.
Death wags its tail smells for a flesh to sink its teeth into.
Mortal man;
Entangled in the sweet web of addiction. Caught in a suicidal company. Yet, never strayed.
Something beats within my frame. A rotten heart. Shallow, but it evokes pain.
Eyes dimmed by apathy. My bleeding wrist soaked the canvas in red.

Instable mind,
Infected void,
A vulnerable body which greets the morning with a fever. Between the fingers holding a brand new
*** subsides the itching.
Mediocre,
Lacking lustre,
Pushing pain into poetry and prose. Subconsciously, I, emulate the old dogs and the papery white
moon smirks at my endeavour.

With a razor,
With a rope,
I, tried to bid this poet a farewell. But, he never departed.
Madness off the leash,
Broken tiles of dreams pave the floor. Not the stars.
But,
Hung bodies crowded the sky.
I'm a cheat, a thief.
Sadness in a vessel. A dying light in the night and what made you think you could save me?