Resentment,
It really is unfair that I entrench you in despise
But looking in your eyes it's just not cutting through all the lies
The lies I tell myself so I can get by feeling alone
Disconnected
All the ******* time
I'm only reflecting how you make me feel
Difference is mines with itnention while your is innocent still.

The only way I see this isn't through my eyes
But crying everytime I see
Something which you can't make mine

Mine is home
Mine is love
Mine is the effort you got to despite all above.

But the word forget has froze you still
Stuck in care and sweetness
But passion and lust need to be separated my love.

"What's funny is" is a ****** statement to be on the receiving end of, it nearly ever ends well.

What's funny is... Often times, most of the time, it's not funny at all. Curious, that we take humorous language and make it into lighter fluid to burn bridges.

What's funny is... The fire is usually a case of arson brought about by projection of in-the-moment feelings, that are fleeting. *******, that we allow ourselves to make them permanent; just mindless masochistic beasts wallowing in the ashes.
What's funny is... The echo chambers we've created for ourselves are actually prisons. Ironic, that we make up walls made out of bricks of unreachable goals, and feel disappointment when we don't achieve them.

What's funny is... Is that the more I interact with people the more I understand why we let ourselves indulge, and indulge, and indulge, to numb the monotony for just one ******* second. Nerve wracking, that every person is just a liability I cannot trust to not become the shackles attaching the weights that drown me.

What's funny is... As hard as I try to remain invisible, I'm forever tracked by a spotlight that blinds me. Insane, to think for one second we are anything but dirt on the ground; let me be dirt.

What's funny is... The numbness, and the pain, are like logs on the fire. Enduring, daily, the pokes and prods to keep the embers going when all they wanna do is die.

What's funny is... I like to dance in the flames but hate being on fire. Truthfully, I aim for embers.

This depressive choreography
                                     of flames
                                     f     i      k     r     n
                                         l    c      e     i     g
consumed in the geography
                                 of bodies
                                 b   i   c   k   e   r   i   n   g
                              
Tongue's embers  licking  
                  the innocent cheek
words like poniards
                     P   R   I   C   K   I   N   G
leaving this dance at its
                                                          piqu­e

Now left  a  s m o u l d e r i n g
             soloist on the stage
                            a dance so sobering
                                     watch this fire's rampage

burn his own pyre
              I gave into the rage
burn his own desire
             another illegible page
tossed to fuel the bellowing fire
              the end of our golden age

I'm *******,
in absolute tears
and wishing that I could take it back.
I want to just curl up
and blast music into my eardrums,
but I don't have my earphones
because they're in the same room as you.
And I cant just go in there,
pick them up and leave,
and I can't just listen to music without them;
it seems almost disrespectful
to do anything but
sit in my pitch-black room.
In silence.
That is what people will expect of me,
and I can't break the silence.
Even the sound of the buttons on my keyboard
are too loud that I'm scared someone will hear
and hate me even more than they do now.

God,
I'm such an idiot.

Why do I always do this?
people are just trying to be nice,
friendly, supportive.
They're my parents for ****'s sake!
why cant I manage to get out a sentence
that doesn't make my mother leave the kitchen table
so that she doesn't have to cry in front of her daughters?
That doesn't stop me from knowing though.
And all the while I spit venom from my mouth,
I think to myself;
you *******, you *******, you ******* *******,
look what you did.
LOOK WHAT YOU DID!
Why can't I just accept that I'm bad for everyone I love
and just cut to the chase
and **** myself
before anyone else gets hurt?

Oh wouldn't it be nice
If we listened to learn
Rather than fight?

Their words aren't just syllables
They're gunshots
Bullets released from the barrel
Not looking for laughter
But looking to ****
Taking the voices from those who need to use them most
Tears aren't just tears anymore
Tears have turned to blood
Flowing from every exit it can find
Arguments aren't just controversies
They're wars.

We fight.
We always fight.
And it always ends in me leaving,
Me yelling,
me slamming the door,
me crying.
And I hate that I'm so hard to deal with,
and I'm sorry...

I yell.
I always yell.
And it always ends up in you pleading,
you crying,
you apologising,
you shouting.
And I hate it when you cry,
and I'm sorry...

You try.
You always try.
And it always ends with us crying,
us hugging,
us forgiving
us talking.
And I hate that it takes so long for me to say;
*'I'm sorry.'

Why do I have to verse in
                           sequential motion.

Poetry is a hurricane within
                            silent altercation.

Arguing within ones voices
                           collectively stalemating.

But words drink within thoughts,
                           Spilling on exposed pages.