love or lust
“I cannot tell a lie”
As I lie
Laying
being beneath you
forcing my light feminine weight above
the sun to your sky
it’s all the same
i feel false i do not feel

you compliment my waist,
my laugh;
my witty repetitoire
riles you—
a true Napoleon in this pint-sized frame
they call me pretty
I yearn to be more

you are leaving and I am numb
maybe I learn to forget
opal iridescence in my free-spirited eyes
dance once
you are gone

I scream to no one,
“must I be alone
to be my own?”

This is my mono-monologue.

I stand alone befoe the world,
My lonely clean white flag unfurled,
Wondering when the winter sky
Will melt my wings and let my fly.

Perched upon a mountaintop
With not a soul in sight
"When will my isolation stop?"
I cry with all my might.

This is my mono-monologue.

The wind whispers
What I hoped I'd never know:
"You are so far away from them
Because you are below.

"But maybe you are
The one who lives above.
Maybe that is why
You never could be loved."

This is my mono-monologue.

I've lived a shunned life
(It can be hard to see)
Although I haven't felt much strife,
My freedom's far from free.

I do not truly know
What you mean by 'best friend'.
I'm fated to live alone
Until the very end.

This is my mono-monologue.

The silhouettes are all the same
When formed by falling nuclear rain;
And that's the real catastrophe:
No difference between you and me.

Is it too selfish not only to matter, but to belong? Despite how guilty I feel, how much sin I’ve committed, my failures, my shortcomings. Is it so wrong to devote myself to myself, to find my own meaning, my own cause, my purpose, my drive, to look for my own happiness, my truths, to **** my desire so I wouldn’t feel that I’m missing out, to find something to fill my void, so my soul wouldn’t live out throughout my day wounded? Even if I seek in external at times? Is it so wrong to be poetic, to be romantic, to be thy. Even if I turn to people like Aleister Crowley, to be inspired not only to think rational, to be passionate. Is it wrong to read philosophy, reject the thought of being complete is in the search of becoming complete? For I’ve peered into myself I found only sadness in the despair I saw & I don’t like. No matter how dramatic this is written, it is my truth, my burden, my curse & it’ the price I’ve paid for originality for wanting only to be myself & I find hard to smile realizing what I could've been by playing it safe & been without to what’s internalized in me. I’m meaningful to you, but a paradox, because I’m without you. I’m only on the brink of your life. As long as I’m on this earth, in this life, I am, unable to & able to live, alone & with others. I weeping now, but you weep when I’ve gone.

(glory under silence is pointless,
don’t puff out your chest, come alive,
use a vest, fire back)
Poetry intended to be written over Heaven,
but it’s everlasting in Hell.
Eternity to eternity.
Shadows without a face, nevermind, if I left
tell your friends, natural causes is a
serial killer.
Discolouring of magic, paganism,
it ain’t even easter.
Scene one, coming out crying, not on
the stage, I found myself at a table,
with divas & bunnys, with their dealers,
pimps & bankers,
I’m on the guest list, giving me bourbon
& *****, cause it’s how they wanted.
Mortal wrenching,
easy to commit to vice than to virtue.
Wordless language in both morals & evil.
The ones who
can transcend, their soul
is waged over.
(I’m cliche, cause I can obtain traits
from ideals, resulting in being original,
I’ve been told before that
I’m special, few had ever thought about
it, rub my tummy, get your fix, smile for me now)