“Come on”
    “Shut up”
         “Behave”
   when one day I burst into flame
     when every notebook I held burned up
           when dusty soot from attempts at art
                                                        just flew away
blinded by the pain
       it’s difficult to see
when every bed is flammable
                       it’s difficult to sleep
       enough sleep deprivation would
                                     drive anyone insane
“Don’t play the victim”
              “Don’t ask for pity”
      “Stop your constant complaints”
                      “Don’t give the fire
                                     power of mind
                                         allow it to grow
                                            into its own entity”
alive but aflame
   hiding with all my might
            they kept asking more
                                  “Be normal”
                                            "Helpful"
   ­                         “Smile for ***** sake ”
               while every glimpse of real
                          gave them a fright
when I in desperation sought
                        for water
                  at any cost
   just make the pain stop
                  while their words
                          created drought
in my life
  of burning flesh
      I kept trying to forget
                                start fresh
                got so good at pretending
                             invisible flames
            my life slowly ending
                 just not aloud
    my silence during emergency
             made them proud
when there was barely any left
  turned to dusty soot myself
     turned mute
        I dropped to my knees
                        I begged
they didn’t waste any time
         before saying
                                  “You have to understand,
                    everyone gets a little hot sometimes”

I am a master,
A master of pretending.
Because if i quit,
No one would like the ending.
The mask is easier,
For everyone but me.
But behind it i became so hollow,
There's nothing left to see.
I made so many faces,
I can't even count.
That when i look for the real me,
It's nowhere to be found.
I'm everyone and no one,
Just something in between.
But i know one thing,
I am a master of pretending,
The best one you've ever seen.

busy pitter patters
of feet, at least
pretending
to be busy
these humans,
these flesh sacks,
place their bags
laptops
their unconsciousness
on this barnes & noble’s
coffee tables
whose chairs aren’t comfortable

yet, here they sit, beside me
amongst me
and an old
ancient, it seems now,
version of me would’ve cursed them
silently
while pretending to associate
to relate
to give a ****
for doing so,
for raising my anxiety,
for reflecting what i truly was,
at least
pretending
to identify with that narrow
window of my self

some collide
physically,
cosmically,
spiritually,
intuitively, whatever the hell you brand it

we all seek
connection,
always elsewhere,
never with our miserable
anxious selves

and if we can’t connect
we, at least
pretend
to do so
much like our riddling iphones
desperate for battery
for a sort of
charge
for life
elsewhere
somewhere else
anywhere
else rather than within

to be alone, amongst the crowds,
without our phones, our books,
our lovers, our seven dollar coffees,
our ******* egg white breakfast sanwhiches

almost as if these things
are essential to the unsavory
cravings and desires, or
dare i say
ourselves

we pretend
to work, to live
we read, without reading
we speak, without thinking,
we speak, without speaking,

“to be, or not to be.”

we don’t care for
intention
anymore
how could we?
we’re just so
un-*******-phadomably
busy
doing
nothing,

at all

just,
pretending.

-melanholicreator

my love,

just give me this day,
                                   as if we are airplanes, parading, and
flying in between the clouds,
                               gray sky,
clooooouuuuuuds,
like in those black-and-white (II war) documentaries,


i promise,
               not to add other colors to them,
why should i,
                     when the original is the original,  and
it has to remain original,


my love, what is the point in watching colored war movies,
when Africa, like a fire,  was coughed up in the middle