It's what I crave,
The thing I desire,
But I'm not that brave,
So I just admire,

Admire the one,
For whom I do live,
Without whom I'm none,
There's not much to give,

So what if I ain't,
That guy that she likes,
Should I just faint,
Or give it more tries?

Can't I be loved by any other,
Is that task just way too much,
I never wanted to be a bother,
But if I am but seen as such,

Should I give up after all,
Just be... me myself and I,
Won't I really make one fall,
For who I am.... Wait who am I?

I open my ribs.  
peeling back the sinews and  
capillaries with precision.  
The crack of spreading bones,  
my chambered apparatus laid  
delicately on the table.  
  
My implement extracts its pound
onto the slab with intention,  
pulled and pressed till it's paper  
thin and bled out. Soulspeak scrawled  
in the crackling veins of my parchment.  
  
I put my machinations on display  
for onlookers, merchants  
and collectors  
but none seem to gather any interest.  
Skinpull another page  
but nothing sells  
or charms or foments.  

I pack my wares and  
toss them onto the pile of  
my dried out corpse scattered  
on the floor.  
Failure.  
Another procedure.  
Relent, repeat, cut deeper.  
And hope to find a reader.

Was it love or desperation?
I can't remember the distinction.  

When you're starved
each crumb feels like grace.

Each small affection
a fervent offering
to a broken beggar.  

But at this point,  
I'll take what little
I can get.

I'm sick and ******* tired
of scraping my pride
down to the bone,
asking for helping,
and hearing nothing.
my life has fallen apart
in three months
after years of beating back
against my tears and indecision.
those that want to, can't.
those that can don't want to.
the fire in my throat isn't half
as searing as the hatred i feel
for the South African tech genius,
searching for waste,
and the ones that failed us.
i carry this molten stress in me,
and i want the worst to happen
to those living their lives everyday
without worry about rent
or food or their car's
impending repossession.


this isn't even a poem anymore,
it's a cry for help.

I've watered this garden for ages
Yet nothing ever grows
I've consulted botanical mages
They haven't the time for my trivial woes

I've pruned with bloodied fingertips-
Soil so stubborn, refusing to shift
I've given every pamphlet a flip
Still no signs of a horticultural gift

i like sitting in the corners of the house, quiet but lonely
where a house is not a home-
it is fascinating to me,
reading every corner of humans mind,
staring into the void,
you lost the touch, but still can see,
hyperaware of what you're missing on,
trying to fit in, but not in corners.
such corners, brings in solitude,
takes away the connection you need.
choosing to isolate while
the ultimate desperation of connection,
binds your soul into threads.
when the soul's purpose is to find a connection, within or outside,
is this being human enough or a human who ran out of desperation?
yet, living with hope in disguise.
a hope to fit in, but not in corners.
-akshitha