Being frank here,
I think a lot

And I think about
my thinking

And I have a unique way of thinking
as do most people

But I combine my thoughts
with analogies
I conceive through
my creativity
And weave them
into words

Which I have learned to love
through my obsessive reading
in my elementary
school
days
...
That's it
I haven't read
enough official
published
poetry

I don't really
edit my
poetry
much

I don't overthink
it
too much
either

Just my thoughts,
on a lonely page
...
...
...
I've wondered time
and time again,
is this even
poetry?

My thoughts
carved with
a
choppy
cleaver

Rough on the edges
with spots of
honesty

As well as
parts,
as smooth and cold
as marble
The honesty hidden
beneath
eloquence
analogies
other distractions
evasions
...
when the truth
is too much

But it's still me on the page
...
...
But what I can't figure out
is,
do I do it
for social approval?
To be heard?
To spill out my emotions?
To make something beautiful?
...
Just cause?

A wintry night
the wind swirls around
...
...
...
blowing my questions
away with a chill...

Triangles are polygons but you tell me they're round...
and I believe you.

There's more to everything than straight lines.

Beautiful's an adjective but you tell me it's a noun...
and I don't doubt you.

You tell me I make flat words come alive.

The sky is black at night but you tell me day is darker...
and you convinced me.

At day, even the brightest lights don't shine.

Rationality impressed me but now it's so absurd.
You and your false statements, but all truer than true.

Finding it difficult
to find myself able
to have faith in you
anymore.

Every sentence
laced with lies
lost in loathed
lipstick.

There once was a time
where I took your
words as an oath
never to be broken
and thought the
truth never omitted.

Here I lie in the aftermath
shown the truth to be set free
shell shocked and shattered.

what is poetry
without a tear
for the dying embers
the distant cheer
for a truth now lost
in chaotic bliss
the magic hidden
within a kiss
the whisper of love
only lovers hear
what is poetry
without a tear

Fur coats, Malboro smokes and fancy labels,
Fabricated faces closed off, segregated, false.
Pretending to be these people, these cloned plastic dolls.

Dark lips, skeletal figures and decadent glances,
Small waists, tall bodies and negative spaces
With hearts going nowhere, only lipstick traces.

You like to talk about people, about insignificant things
Not birds, or mountains or the potential life brings.
But just remember this: you will never tower over a mountain or grow any wings