I’m an expert
at what I do.
Every drop
of my every being
is good at being me.

It’s my only choice.
every action I do
trapped in myself
in my choices
in my mistakes
in my beautiful mind
as most have

It’s what I was
always made to be.

Since it was written
in the stars
mostly deep in
cells of my blood
in the coded chains
in the atoms
that make up
the long depths
of my soul:

I am me and
I am ******* good at it.

i used to spend a long time with you and thinking about you.
i would write and sing yarns and threads of your life.
we busied ourselves for hours, days, away from
just about whatever it was that kept me sad.
it seems like a lot of years have passed
and even though we're still so close
it seems more and more like i,
just can't spare the effort to.
i love you and always will
don't think that changes
but i can't write letters
or play pretend with,
all my secret friends
i just feel tired yet,
not forgotten or
alone or lost or
is there a way,
an expression
of how wiser
but without
motivation
i feel now?

maybe just
fully lucid
and aware
the clarity
of a mind
only idle
that life
my life
wasn't
worth
much
at all.
how
sad.

and that it wasn't worth the fatigue it took to get here. but what can i do? i am at a dead-end, there is nowhere to go. if i write a longer line, i break the trend. the trend wasn't even very good to begin with. i think a few of those lines are too long for the pattern. i spent some minutes trying to resolve them but i wasn't satisfied.

in truth, though it often takes that idled age to realize, past the self-conscious judgement and harsh, masochistic self-critique
the point is not to be unique or force anything.
it's to express the heart,
because that's not something anyone gets to do very often, especially not to strangers.

if i've gone long past being frightened of death or spiders, i'd expect some words to not spur my anxiety so much.

anxiety is just that; fear of my, your own unreasonable expectations
not the fear of being ridiculed, or the complex fear of success;
not even a fear of being hated, or forgotten and never remembered
it's the fear of never being known to even be forgotten
that awful dreadful horror of not being noticed at all.
not becoming stronger as an individual, but less.
and it can be fatal.

I've forgotten how to speak
I've forgotten how to smile
But if I sit down and just think
Perhaps I'll remember for a while

I've lived a life by many names
By many faces, old, and new
I've seen my reflection fade to dust
And think, perhaps I can do that too

See my smile
Of course you do
I've made sure it looks convincing
But look deep into my eyes
And perhaps my mask is slipping

Have you ever looked at me
No, really, looked at me
What do you know, what do you see
Perhaps it is a truth, but candid is hard to be

I often think to myself
What would the doctors say,
If they could get a hold of me

That was a joke.
Funny, is it not?
Perhaps there may be more this than I had originally thought

All people are selfish.
Not all people have empathy.
A waltz or ballet dances in my head.
Am I doomed to hear them on repeat until the day I’m dead?

Why can I never write?
Tripping over my words like rope left out at sea.
Now look at that, I've lost all hope of writing an analogy.
Then a rhyme, a spark of joy.
Maybe this could be a song worthy of others to see.

There’s never quiet,
always sound,
never focused,
it's just too loud.

Words used to be my escape but now I can't even write.
I design fantasy worlds where I can fight my inner demons,
the ones that crawl around at night,
as foxtrots in the background are played in delight.

So I'm sitting in a back room, cringing at the slightest sound.
Reusing old lines from old poems and songs.
Things I can't finish,
things I can't start,
and things that hurt my broken heart.
Thoughts that seem stupid but won’t go away,
moments in the moonlight that aren't here to stay.

I'm so tired and yet I've gotten enough sleep
I guess I'm just tired of promises to keep.

There's so much to do
Much I wish that I did
Someone needs to remind me
I'm still just a kid.

Can I have another childhood, can I take it all back?
Would I take back the painful years of torment, of lying and shame?
Would I take back the tears that I have cried?
No. I’d never take back those tears, for they are my story.

There.

Have I done it?

Have I written enough?

I'm tired, so tired, I can't see it through.

Distractions, distractions, they hold me inside.
Inside the dark corners that make up my mind.
So many things dwell inside of my head.
It’s hurting, It’s hurting, make it stop, the little boy said.

Take another step, I know that you can.

This is but a simple night,
Not unlike any other,
But the lonely figure in the garden
Meets the face of yet another

I become the face I see on the other side of the mirror,
The outside observer, the heinous sight,
Shifting ever slightly still,
So the glass might catch the light.

For it may be the sunny day,
Or the calm and peaceful night,
Yet still, you’ll see the small figure in the garden,
Smiling with delight.

My past sits before me in a cushioned armchair
mimicking my crossed legs
a swaying foot

I’m so focused on its story
that the walls surrounding begin flickering swiftly
yellow, grey, violet, grey, yellow

in minute intervals, everything else vanishes
except a voice that travels from there to here

the words ever changing as they go, and finally settling upon the tips of my fingers

then, comes to me, names that nurture the weeds in my veins
from my first love, a bright doe
through the birds, vampires and ghosts
all the way to Pan

to cultivate this breathtaking wildflower is my fantasy
so that its fragrance will entrance me into a state of sleep
and take me to a place where resolution is needless

between me and the cushioned chair
are miniscule grains of actuality blended with accidental lies

I know there’s no literal plant
just as I know that there’s no literal resolution
and that it’s not really my fault

I was always good enough to have it all
therein lies the perfect balance of pain and joy

for I do not have any of those people anymore, this is fact
for that’s just how life works, this is faith

Introspection
The art of finding within
What you cannot live without