Nothing I do is perfect, and that's what terrifies me.
I stare and stare at the crooked lines and microscopic germs,
not able to be seen under the naked eye.

My room intimidates me to the extent in which I'm afraid to enter.
The mess is obscure, chipped paint off the walls and pencils thrown to the sides in utter frustration.
I can't focus when what I'm doing isn't exact.

Math causes me to panic.
Not because of the algebraic expressions, but because of the erase marks that always litter the paper afterwords that never seem to hide.
They're always there, showing off how horrid my handwriting looks.

The idea of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder makes me want to scurry.
I know I'm a living example of it, and I know how nerve-wracking it is being around me.
Because everything needs to reach my standards, and nothing ever does.

I split open my psyche
scouring for ideas
A novel way of saying how I feel

All I find and see is gray
with nought but uniform figures
That tower over me and block the light

Sinking deeper and deeper
like a capsule swallowed
into the gut of my mind

A wretched thought clears the path
Into a new enlightenment
Bleak as it may be, I am empty

I haven't let emotions or thoughts flow out of my system,
I've just been holding **** in
And as a result
I am now emotionally, and mentally clogged
And that's just blocking any progress or productivity of my inner self.
Writing has even become so difficult to accomplish.

Frustration withers my mind.
I float around today like a piece of string.
Nothing seems to be going right,
So I rub my temples and ground myself.
Far from focusing on reality,
Any distraction tornados my focus.
All I want to do is follow my ambition,
But I cannot get the wind to blow in my direction.

Why are you doing this to me?
What did I do to you?
I gave you what I had,
And with it.
What did you do?

Option quitting, done, tired.
No hopelessness only acceptance.
What is, continues and will not be stopped.
This thing is not of myself, and all of myself.
This is why it is accepted.

Fighting is futile    and    been exhausted.

One cannot expect that a person would be able
to tolerate such constant change of
disposition as an ebb and flow
of the most extreme
waters and of
energy.
These, are forever and they fight
against the self and become the self.
They only put forth little effort, that is all that's needed.
It is strong.

There is a good reason
behind every disappointment
behind every awful failure
behind every painful fall
and every tear that rolls down
from one's weary eyes.

Yes, there is.

And someday,
we'll know what it is,
but I just hope
I'd still be here.

she's the girl you meet
when you're young and reckless

you meet her when
you were expecting another pack of cigarettes
to add to your chain smoking addiction

everyone leaves her
because she is the epitome of
fuzzy blankets
reckless abandon
hopeful sunsets
long terms
unconditional love

and after they realize
the depth of the scars on her heart
they're gone
no explanation

"someday you'll find someone who deserves you"
"don't give up on love because of me, they're not all this bad"
and the worst,
"you're still my best friend"

until someone realizes
she is content with imperfection

she will always be alone