if I'm destined to be alone
I would like to enjoy my company
at the very least
to be one of those girls
who can enjoy flower fields in the sun
all in their lonesome
with pretty dresses and a burning confidence
to love myself for all the little things
that I used to hate
to be alone and lovely

Why does it take long to write a poem?
Are months consumed into few fleeting feelings?
A poem is severed
Of feelings that need to be let go of
A delusion of a listen
A poem doesn’t listen
What does it do?
An appearance for
No purpose
But to be outside
Is like braving the wind
To tell the wind you have braved it
Is this a poem?
None of us know yet
Mounting feelings in an abandon
A poem deceives
And leaves them for dead
For forgetfulness is eternal
And the rest rot in several lifetimes
But the burden?
Unburden, eventually?
The poem is ******
Can we let go of it at all?
It persists
We let them know we were there
To come face to face with selves of us
That we have avoided
Does the poem really look out for you?
And asks, pretending you know?
Do we need no end?
We are here to while away time
And tell them
We whiled the time away.

While I got up from the mattress
To the hall; the metal man
Advent towards me, ask my wants
The words, spill from my tongue
Should be in a very articulate manner.

It is just a metal man,
My command should be clear enough
Cause, there is no one to make a sound!

Took a warm bath
I came to my wooden closet
The aged thing of the house
“Oye elige un atuendo compatible.”, I said
It became immobile.

It is just a metal man,
Doesn't have a heart.
Cause, there is no one to make a sound!

The timepiece sound ‘Tic-Toc-Tic'
The clouds darken; the thunder hit
The dark clouds spill the hail
I described the hail, it looked at me
Indicating the power is trifling.

It is just a metal man,
Can’t feel the taste of the hailstones.
Cause, there is no one to make a sound!

Took tortilla espanola for supper
“Buenos noches mi familia!”, I said.
I can’t expect the respond
Went back to the bed
Wanna live with my dreams.

It is just a metal man,
Can’t respond to the feelings.
Cause, there is no one to make a sound!

I want to write, but what about?
I have nothing to say, no words to make.
Every idea is just a half bake.

I want to learn, but how?
I can't focus for long, my attention span fades.
Every idea it forbades.

I want to love, but whom?
Who would ever have feelings for me?
Doomed to loneliness for eternity.

I've put little effort into this,
But maybe that's ok.
I don't need to work hard every day.

To escape the constraints of a mundane life,
you slip into the tenebrous shadows of the night
which are only interrupted by intervals of streetlights,
washing the night street with an orange glow.
against the wide windows of houses, figures show,
you feel like the loneliest being alive.

Your shoes push against leaves, dusted with snow
and ripe with the smell of death - surprisingly sweet.
Coming upon a path, you ponder the beauty and danger
of the night-fallen forest, magnetically pulling you to go.
Your sight flees you, leaving the interjection of where all sounds meet:
the whisper of tree branches, murmurs of the Saskatchewan River.
While people are tucked away in their homes, deep in peaceful slumber,
You and the night have never been awake.

She's crying from her smile.
That hypocritical smile
that she once swore to erase.

She doesn't want to meet anyone else
She doesn't want to come into their lives
trying to escape.

She just wants to be alone,
get on the train of dreams,
get to the other side.

She just wants to be alone
because that's better
than surround herself with strangers.

I think I lost myself when I first met you
But now that you're gone, I don't know who to be.

im overcome with the need to reinvent myself and confess everything to everyone, to become so open that im bleeding out every secret ive ever had to keep all over the linoleum floor, but second thoughts stitch me back together with needles made of words meant to cut, whittled down thin enough to fit just underneath the skin, pulling gashes in my skin together with online threads about checking up on your friends that everyone reads and nobody listens to, performative pieces that people regurgitate to make you think they care but they dont, because we're too busy worrying about ourselves to think of anybody else. we're conceited by nature, reverse narcissists kneeling by a river, scrutinizing our reflections, searching, aching for imperfections so we can say "look at how horribly ugly i am and pity me". we're too proud to be pitiful and too pitiful to have any pride, paradoxical advertisements of lonely people too scared to ask for love.

my hands are shaking and my mind is buzzing and if this makes any semblance of sense to you then I am so terribly sorry.