Shattered and broken
Hated and messed up
The thoughts are rotten
And everything's twisted
Like my own mind
Let us free there entwined roots
Let the society not be blind.

Blind as we were always,
We tend make promises,
When we hold thy little fingers
In our own grown ones
We tend to break promises
When thy grow as majestic as us
Because we later realise
The society existed and it would be a fuss
If we are rebellious.

Rebels rise from the graves
But they are shut out
From the whole place
Into their underground
Holes, they used to stay in, back to the caves.

They take rebels and make them dig
Dig deeper and deeper trenches
Where they at last put them in
To quench their burning rage.

The society is a messed up place
Full of lies and cheats
Rebels try to shape
But then thy push them into shade
'Cause then for them
Something goes out of shape
For them, shaping is a blasphemy ,
A pure profanity
For their fake divinity.

Society is orderly disordered
A complete pack of sane insanity
Where lunatics rule and sane lives on gruel,
Where united division is taught
Where the strongest of brains forgot
What living is.

My life constitutes of
a dichotic shift as I
drift
between
a state of self-assuredness
and self loathing.

When I am assured
I am sure
that my eyes are a
golden brown,
my smile whitened and straightened
with perfectly painted lips.
My eyelashes curl upward
as I give you my most intriguing smirk,
inducing you into giving me
those copies for free
and saying "Ay girl"
as I cross the street.
My jeans hug my hourglass figure
like a girl from a video,
and the compliments find themselves
going my way.
My brain swells with
knowledge and an almost-eery insight
as I predict your admiration
and find myself compensating as to
not appear
ostentatious.
I hold myself with the highest regard and
refuse to let a man
make me feel inferior,
to judge me by my exterior because
I am superior to that
treatment.
My wit is quick and
you can bet I'll put a
Slick Rick in his
place if he is even fit to
keep up with my pace.

But then again
I look at him and see
him frowning at my
symmetrical, but overly round
face,
thinking that there might
be other ladies in this place
with a smaller frame,
with a flat stomach and
a tame sense of style,
not a fedora or Timberland boots or a beanie,
not someone who cackles when
she laughs
and talks even more loudly and
obnoxiously than she chuckles.
I'm not smooth enough to
keep your attention as
my obsession with Harry Potter accidentally
gets disclosed,
as I feel my skin-diseased cheeks
bleeding through their concealer and bronzer mask.
A law school degree sounds boring and
braggy as I grasp
at straws, at my only backup source of comfort,
as I attempt to woo you with my brain because
you clearly aren't into a size ten.
You glance out of the sides
of your eyes as you buy me a drink,
or you tell me you aren't
ready for a relationship
even though we've been
sleeping together for a year;
"it's just not you, it's me"
is what I finagle
as a girl named Hailey
posts a picture of you with
your arm around her size two
waist and top-heavey Double D's.
I let down all of my walls and
you forget my birthday,
and I stay devastated over you long
enough for you to
forget my name.

I'm two-in-one;
I'm confidently lacking in confidence and
disapprovingly disapprove of
anyone's opinion of me
but my
own.

I am everything
And I am nothing.
I am big
And I am small.
I am frightened
And I am brave.
I am empty
And I am whole.
I am happy
And I am sad.
I am strong
And I am weak.
I am lonely
And I am fulfilled.
I am optimistic
And I am cynical.
I am hopeless
And I am hopeful.
I am right
And I am wrong.
I am selfless
And I am selfish.
I am lost
And I am found.

I am ironic.
I am not quite psychotic.
I am oxymoronic.

I am me.

Oh,
how conflicted is the soul
of a poet,
for we yearn for nothing more
than to share the deepest depths,
our nakedness and rawness in
the beautifully
tragic love we feel,
but how much do we
try to individualize
that that lies inside, to make ourselves
stand out, for we
experience the world in sensory means
beyond the normal comprehension
of those around us;
how badly we wish for our
word choice and alliteration
to breathe life into the persons
who never hopefully
comprehend our creativity,
for we are arrogant in our
supernatural secret-keeping,
in our mind games and
manipulation.
Oh, how I bless my soul,
a poet lost
deep in the depths of my own
emotion,
of my never-waivering devotion,
to being the most uniquely recognized
and desperately bittersweet
wide-eyed doe
that ever did aggressively
permit the world
to melt so fervently into a home
within her.

I like spending time alone
With the right person.

The problem is that
I found the right person.

I know it doesn’t make sense
To enjoy solitude
With someone else.

And I also know
I’m not his right person.
I know he doesn’t think about me.

And I know he won’t think about how my hair glows a goldish-bronze in the sunset.
He won’t dream about my blue eyes peering over his chest after we make love.

And I know he won’t rant about how I don’t love him with the same passion he loves me,
Because it’s the other way around.

I know he likes spending time alone,
Maybe with the right person.

The problem is that
I wasn’t the right person.

felt strong and weak
like a paradoxical spirit
walking between the lines of
yes i do and no i don't

felt like a skyscraper
among all the other concrete mountains
blending in, sticking out
windows open, blinds shut
walls untouched by rain, but
the water still falls in through the gaping frames
and onto the floor
seeping into the surface in patterns of
yes i do and no i don't

felt like a city among many
like one among thousands
like the only one with my mind cut open
like the only one thinking
real thoughts

my real thoughts
have not yet been made material
are they still real?
yes they are or no they're not

all i'm really looking for
is an answer