The problem with opening up,
And speaking the sad words,
"I don't want to be here anymore,"
And showing your scars,
So intimately sharing yourself,
With those you trust so dearly,
Is that, inevitably, the next thing,
To follow,
Is pity.

**** you!
How dare you spurn my words.
With you it's never what I said,
but what you think you heard.

How dare you doubt the nature
of my truth; would I say
that you are beautiful
and mean anything less?
How dare you call me a liar,
and hold under my feet such a fire,
and beg me "Confess! You think I'm ugly,
it's true! How could I be perfect as you?"

I don't point out my own flaws; in your eyes they're not there.
I don't hold up a mirror to my face for you to see my sunken eyes,
I don't list you every lie, or tell you of all my crimes,
I don't quibble and deface what you hold beyond any compare.
I just grin, and say "Thanks," and let it rest there.
And I try to make you understand, but you turn me away,
and now I'm done wasting air.
There's nothing left to explain.
You were beautiful when I said it, now you're ugly in vain.
And could you see that for truth, you'd be beautiful once again.

But it doesn't matter;
You're too busy raging with spittle,
to listen to the truth that I've painstakingly shown.
And I'm too busy loving you
to allow your beauty to not shine through,
So, I take my leave of you,
tears marring that face you claimed to love so,
heading into the unknown,

Oh, **** you, again!
My words; my feelings
are not yours
but my own.
If my feelings mean so little,
Then be ugly alone.

Don't your words
Leave a stagnant taste of pity,
lingering on your tongue?

Don't your actions,
exceed your shallow words?

When was the last time,
you actually kept your thoughts to yourself?

To me,
you seem to be the type of person
who hisses and scowls at a sunrise,
only because it's too beautiful.

A.C

To all those who are love-sick:
Some cry, I want love; I need love!
I am loveless; pity on me;
Love me, love me, love me
PLEASE!
Oh dear, why don’t you see!
Your eyes are closed to it.
Love is a breeze:
It moves the trees, sometimes just the leaves.
It can create waves in the ocean.
Love is whimsical and deep.

What will you give to your lover?
Do you possess a moonstone or stardust?
Have you planted a thousand roses?
Have you mapped the earth
To take your lover
On a journey full of mirth?

No—
I don’t have a moonstone,
nor do I have stardust.
I am poor but have roses and flowers
in all colors.

I will be kind to her limbs.
I can fill her life with passion.
Her organs will thank mine.
Her eyes will peck at mine.
Her hairs I will brush,
Igniting the passion in her soul,
Her vale merging with my knoll,
A hummock
just for her pleasures,
ever waiting, ever desiring.

Your lover is there—
look, look, O young lover!
She is standing right behind you.

When will he make her an offer?
When will he be
on the horse
with a ring?

We romanticize our sadness
To share it with the world
Let others know we understand
Or maybe get a little pity
Because what’s wrong with
A little fake love every now
And then?

*(r.e.)