You ****.
I ****.
Ducks ****.
Okay, maybe not ducks...

But you,
Me
Him
Her
We...

****

Equally?

Maybe.

But that's not how it seems.

You know about your **** and I know about mine, and we each try to minimize the amount of our **** the other can find,  
without looking too hard,
At what the **** is, after all, we just know about it and keep it in.

But as we all have, I have thought hard and long. about what makes me **** and what I do wrong but the other day a thought came to stop looking at me, and think about other people, who are outwardly un-sucky.  

And I think if we look at one another when we need to look at ourselves,
when we're tossed, and paper thin,

We would each see each other trying really hard.
And we would forgive them,
by looking out-in.

To play the heartstrings plays a song only we can hear,
To love the artist of words,

Every string you pluck,
Becomes our canvas.
Make us cry,
The world will read.

To love a writer,
Is to publish your deeds.

I came empty handed
and that is how I will go.
The soil where I am planted
is where my memory will grow.

To cry for help in an empty room,
To slit a wrist with a notebook page,
To try to chase away the gloom,
To try and try, but things don't change.

To live and die not knowing why,
Happiness you never felt,
Lets only your wishes slide,
Into drainpipes of contempt,

To laugh at your own demise,
To let irony build a wall,
To make sarcasm as sharp as lies.
To let hate warm up your soul.

To **** the one for he feels better,
To **** yourself because you're worse,
To not know why you're doomed to shatter,
To truly hate the universe.

To live and die, not knowing when,
The laughter will turn into screams,
And fill your heart with a calming sense,
When my nightmares are your dreams.

To who is he a hypocrite?
The boy who wanted distance,
from love,
from expenditure.
A boy who thought of himself not
only as a man.
life's game seemingly
far too easy.
And with the lies for desire of
distance,
of love and expenditure,
comes obsession of
garments, and poison
and desperate lips.
Hypocrisy is the causation of his loneliness.

i am here because of words. we all are
i suppose; every word in this book combined tell how
i was born and raised and cried when
i was two because my brother got more attention than
i did. they are countless stories counted with three-hundred-thousand-something words
i can find in this dictionary that
i hold in my hands, and
i think maybe, atlas would be proud.