I could write love poems for days
Yet not once have I been in love
(With someone else that is)
I could write a book of sonnets
With no one to recite them to
(Except to myself of course)
I can preach about the danger in our love
And the joys in our heartache
Because I am a Narcissist who hates myself
I am an utmost contradiction
An antithesis, an oxymoron
(or maybe just a ***** full stop)
Either way I have loved myself
The way the moon loved the sun
And yet I've destroyed myself
The way Mt Visuvius destroyed pompeii
Relentless, and still gentle,
A beautifully tragic mess.
Self love turns to self hate
With the flip of a switch of my bedroom lights
Light turns to dark
And I turn into my own worst nightmare
Becoming my own demons
And when morning comes
And I'm so bloodied and bruised,
Ill nurse my broken body tenderly
Reviving my former self
I'll look in the mirror and see
The only friend, the only lover, the only person
That has ever stayed
And i'll remember why I love who I am
And how I am strong,
Stronger than my demons,
Than my own thoughts ,
And stronger than myself.

His head on my lap
But I still have this question
Why is there a gap?
My heart and my brain
Are in two different directions
The heart feels warm
A little bit cozy and safe
The brain is a storm
Wishing he could hide in a cave

An abundant blessing becomes over-used
Becomes an economical powerhouse
For those who exploit its insignificance.

Largely significant to individuals who hurry nature
Rapid growth aided by toxic substances
Forcing nature to suffer a life full of exploitation.

Humans put price tags on nature.
Something priceless in its natural state gets demoted in value.
But, its value to humans - priceless.

Without sustainable and artificial growth of stand-alone insignificant pieces, a whole species of intoxicating humans will be eradicated.

Luscious greenery and growth follows the death of a human.

Sometimes affection

makes us expect for more.

Sometimes we let our love

hurt us the most.

Sometimes we already tell our genuine feelings

but they tend to ignore it,

Because towards those people

Even if you love them they will not do the same.

black and white lines
my mind with meaning
lost in the
cycle of searching for
something to see and
believe in that means i don't have to
be something i can't be
that perfection is possibility
and that--possibly--
i won't sink into
everything i need to be
to believe i don't hate me
and need to continue to be
alive
and that living in sight
of everyone's
awful eyes
isn't as condemning as
i think it is
when i'm
not quite asleep
but nonetheless dreaming
everyone everywhere
hates to be
here with all our
collective sadness
and that sadness isn't
a death sentence
and we can speak something
else entirely
ennobling eternity
and our live so fleeting

this feeling is believing, so call me a saint of
spoken
sorrow
and

contradictions

As I sit here consuming the evenings last few conscious thoughts,
It occurs to me that the thoughts in my heart do not match the way I talk.

I talk of kindness, care, and of love, And of putting everyone around me way above.

I think and feel that I could ****, at the slightest drop of a hat.
Normal people do not think like that.

Knowing what I am is the scariest of thoughts.
Knowing I’m undeserving is a feeling that I’ve caught.

The darkness that resides within me, consumes my every thought.
Yet I have the audacity to walk a kindly talk.
I have the bare faced cheek to ignore my darkest thoughts.

They are part of me I know, but I must not put them on show.
The darkness is my failing, nobody else needs to know.