I Gave all I Had ,
Yet i am Alone and Sad,
Seems with Nothing left to offer you gave up on me and got Mad,
Now I Feel like my Death would make you Glad,
I was Nothing but Good,
I gave you all ,,,all I Could,
More than Most Would and now there is Nothing Left to Give Where I Should,
I'm Nothing of a bad Person,
You just Broke my best Version,
Everything Seemed Enough untill it made my Mental Health to Rough,
Now all your Love you's are just a Bluff,
Family is Supposed to be an UnConditional Love !!!

The old poets haunt me
they taunt me from the shadows
following every keystroke I type -
they’re critical of phrases,
they demand narrower themes
and mock the very clichés they invented.

I remind these frightful spirits of how tenuous
life was, how I’m blindly living these experiences,
how prevalent desire is, how human it is to chase
the things we’re told will fulfill us, like goals and love.

I try and explain this Internet thing,
how the more copious my writings,
the more people it says are following me.
How I really don’t want to sound paranoid
but as hard as I try - I don’t see anyone.
.
.
Song for this:
Too Much Time On My Hands by Styx
Reelin' In The Years by Steely Dan

Sometimes, as the sun sets,
And the sharp grass on your bare feet
Leaves its marks as you pass through,
You reach the goal net.

In that rigid inability to move past it,
Still seeing through,
Where the sun lies,
"The obstacle is the way."

You might think the goal net is the goal,
But behind it, something deeper lies—
Something brighter,
Something ever-present.

The beauty of the sunset—
You don't have to go anywhere to see it.
You don't need scissors to cut the net;
You don’t have to score, just be here.

Turn around; see it not as a barrier,
But as a frame, highlighting the beauty.
The net is no longer in the way—
It is the way.

Painters strive for the perfect stroke
Comedians look for the perfect joke
Writers seek to engage or provoke
**** stars strain for the perfect poke
Students grind, hoping they won’t choke
Trump derides his conviction as a hoax
Yachtsmen yearn for the perfect boat
Social climbers aspire to be bespoke
Politicians pretend to be regular folk
Workers yearn to throw off their yoke
Golfers train for a consistent stroke
Flyers pray their Boeing isn’t broke
Stoners want the ultimate ****
A smile is what I want to provoke
.
.
A song for this:
Good Luck, Babe! by Chappell Roan

My shadow was eating me alive,
I was becoming an outline,
Of the person I once could recognize.
My ambitions were fading,
Goals made for dreaming,
Left me feeling.

Aching for the life I could have led.  
With every day that passes,
my hands feel see-through.
My gaze is glazed with dull focus.
As if I am disappearing from who I once knew.