I feel blindsided by your dishonesty
Shocked to know that this is you
The real you
Not the prince I saved my soul for

I am pierced by your callousness
I would have laid down my very life
In order to defend your honor
Alas, morning would not have come for me

It isn't malice that encases me
It is a bottomless, frigid anguish
Because it is now clear what's inside your heart
And I'm not there anymore

I need to teach myself
that when they leave,
when they fall out of love,
when they reject,
It's not always because of my inadequacy
but rather it speaks
volumes about them.

she told me she loved me,
but she would only hold my hand.
she wouldn’t let me touch her hips
or even give her a kiss goodbye.

she told me she loved me,
but it’s been a year since we kissed.
she only hugs me when I ask for it,
my God, I miss the bliss.

she told me she loved me,
but I felt like she didn’t mean it.
she looked me in the eye,
and somehow I couldn’t see it.

she told me she loved me,
but why wouldn’t she say sorry?
then I figured that maybe,
she does love me,

but just not enough.

a.g

"If it has nothing to do with me
Then why should I even be here?"
That sounded far more narcissistic
Coming out of my mouth. But
I meant exactly what I said, and
I knew exactly what I meant.
I knew exactly what I meant.


-
By Aleksander Mielnikow

A mild case of impostor syndrome,
a severe symptom in the form of
confabulations without instigations,

are the base of our disease.
Who we are, is glued to our
actions, due to devour
what our soup tasted like before it all went sour.

This is nonsense, this is weak,
this is no writing of which people speak.
Is it even right in use to say the things, written.
Stop longing for the time of long before,

when we were all still rid
of conscious thought and feeling,

back when we were reeling in and out, casually,
of our devout inadequacy.

I grieve for the poems
Drawing a map of my soul
Failing in the beauty of the form
My body a mirror of this
Carrying me so adequately
Beauty and grace absent to others eyes

I wish, just for moment, that I could show you how you look to me. How even your simplest of creations are a constant inspiration. Not because they give me ideas or contribute in a synergistic manner with my own works. It’s because your pieces of literary and artistic genius give me hope that one day my own pieces will no longer be this muddled, contorted maelstrom of chaos and damnable poetry. They give me happiness when I sorely lack even a shred of joy. They enable me to bravely face the demons of my work, in hopes of quelling their ceaseless screams, or destroying them all together. In the end, your positivity helps me face the monsters that I have created to remind myself that this world will continue to beat me down, and that with the unknowing support of all of you, I can continue to fight.