Maybe I'm not sick enough
Of sad, beautiful girls.

They wear misery so well.
Like pouty lips,
And blushy cheeks.
Swollen eyes,
And little mouth noises-
A siren's call.

I'm a ******* ******* at heart.

It's pretty sick
Of her
To humor me like this.
To let me be the joke.

Doesn't she know
That I would sabotage myself
Just to hear her laugh?
Just to feel wanted?
Just to feel worthy?

Just to make my skin feel bearable?

Doesn't she know
She's the movie screen
I project my affections
Onto?

Sniveling silver.

Doesn't she know
She's my one chance
At feeling normal?

At feeling anything at all?

Doesn't she know
I'm tired?

I don't want to wait anymore.

I'm pretty sick
Of myself.
I need her laughter
To drown out the silence.

I'm so uneasy alone.

Their wet eyes are interchangeable.
A series of lips,
Cooling cheeks.
Blue mouths-
And their captivating sounds.
I laugh.

I'm pretty foolish.
She's pretty sick.

I never intended to lose you that night.
I was wasted out of my mind--
Treating my young irresponsibilities
With more irresponsibility.
They said you left crying and in a daze.
In a certain sense,
I'm glad I didn't see you.
Not like that.
It would have broken me.
I just can't help but think,
That if I had,
Would I instead have held you through the night,
Before I let you become a victim of the night?

I'm so sorry.

Is it that entertaining...
Watching.
Snickering behind hidden words.
Is it that meaningless.
Leading the blind in circles.
With such an alluring scent.
Soon.
Dusk will drain what remains of the sky.
Yet the moon will not rise.
Not this night.
For this has left the senses.
Unresponsive.
Regardless of the tides.
Not even gravity dare defy such.
And in such ways.
That the mind will plunder.
And hide.
For in this deception of perception.
Will this day be known..
As this fools tragic.
Comedy.

For all who read (or any who care)
I may somehow give up writing but no one
Would be aware.
After dozens of failed poems-sitting all alone,
"This is it!" I say and promise I won't write again,
There is much writers block so at least I come
Up with something NEW now and then.
But who cares about that?
Instead, we'll read re-hashed garbage
And praise it like it's priceless.
People make me sick, because they're
A vain sort that bring new meaning to the word
*Foolishness.