often more times than not, i question if i have a knack for writing poems.
truth be told, i cannot discern the answer.
i attempt to make something roll off the tongue.
but, it's hard to do so when you don't know how to start.
so, a poet like me will have trials and tribulations that weigh heaviness on themselves.
it's the soul-crushing kind that feels similar to a heart aching.
because you want to be one of the best, but the reality is that you don't have the means to become better.

insecurity gets the best of me.
even when I don’t mean for it to.
a fear of becoming bothersome
with these afflictions I try to suppress.
I suffer restlessly with these sentiments,
earnestly craving a silence from the voices
that resound persistently in my head.
I struggle with the irons wrapped around me,
screaming routinely that it’s all a facade.
no matter how hard I try, how far I run,
the thoughts are always ahead of me.
always one step in front, beckoning me.
enticing me to welcome their embrace.
an embrace of sorrow, of lies and of pain.
a place of immeasurable uncertainty.
blanketed by a face of calm.

No matter how
you sugarcoat it,
there is never
a nice way
of calling someone
fat.

I.E.

“You would have been beautiful
in the Renaissance era
[because in the Renaissance era
they painted portraits
of chubby girls like you—
back then,
fat was artistry.]


I still don’t know what
I was more upset about:
The backhanded compliment--
"would have"
being synonymous for
"no longer"--
or the fact that
I was conditioned
to believe the
Mona Lisa
was anything short of  
sublime.

just tell me that you think I look pretty tonight
and that my eyes look dazzling under lights
please don’t hesitate on all that you’re thinking
because now all the thoughts in my head are spinning

It's okay really it is,
Or maybe it isn't.
As you point out all my flaws especially in my **** face.
You pull at my cheeks and my chubby chin,
I really just hate it.
I don't care if you say that my chubby cheeks are cute,
Because it's not,
They're ugly.
And what gives you the right to point out my **** acne to me every single day.
Should I point out your bad skin?
And how it looks freakish in certain areas.
Don't even think about judging me on the way I eat.
Take a good look at your own self,
Cause I sure as hell know all my insecurities.
Do you even know yours?
Or do you want me to point them out for you every single day like you do mines?
Be careful about what you say on regards to my own body,
Because remember I've seen yours too.

To lose yourself
Is scary

As not to know
The way

You see a million directions
And you're afraid to choose

You're overanalyzing
Lose touch to any feeling

You're transparent like a ghost
There's no sense in your existence

You see no sense at all.

Like a trombone
The sound of pain in mind
Your brain gets hurt
You're stuck

Can barely breath
Why breath at all?
If you're a ghost

You're scaring, hurting others.
What a shame.

Who will be ever able to love you?
It mustnt be true, it must be a game.