Why do I wish I'd die if life is supposedly so great?
How can I love myself if all I ever feel is hate?
How can I keep my sanity when the screams are so loud?
Why do I always feel ashamed, even when I should be proud?
In this world, do I serve any sort of purpose?
Or is my existence entirely worthless?
These are the questions to which I want the answers,
Before I am consumed by my self-hatred cancers.

there is something powerful about holding
a pen in your hand and writing down
all of the things that you know
and that you
don’t

so my tearstains litter the page like petals
falling from my pen
because my eyes have lost their caring long ago
I’m not sure when
but at some point being okay
became more important than being alive so

I don’t really cry anymore. can’t.
sometimes I know that I should but
the tears don’t come and I feel
a little less than human

but this is how i love myself:
honest ink tracing words of the heart
words that hold my essence better than i ever could
words that voice my joy and my hope and my anguish
words
words
words

Even my poems
do not speak eloquence
or a personal soliloquy--
my words lack the lush
and brazen must
that all else seem to speak.

To hold a pearl
is something to behold
a precious mistake
bore into beauty.

I speak muzzled
ideas that are simply
monologues; meant
to only hinge
ideas together.

They do not
let you understand me,
but give a soft or bleak
ensemble of demenor
of someone I've been trying to find.

Destiny has arrived,
My time has come.

Despite there being,
much more to be done.

Ideas such as this,
come and go as they please.
Just as this life,
prepares itself to cease.

It came all too fast,
there was no time to prepare.
Swept off my feet as the very winds declare

"You who have lived,
a life short as can be,
Now it is time,
to decide who you want to be.
For good or for ill,
for the better or worst.
What you do is in your hands,
whereas your life shall disperse."

Remembered for what,
having done what, for whom.
What is it I feel,
am I willing to ****?

My very own life,
precious as can be,
for this sole reason,
what will I die for with glee?

The answer is simple,
How could I forget?
To pass on my seeds,
to whomever shall have them.

Giving the world my most heartfelt contribution,
sharing with the world, a most wonderful creation.
The most subtle, archaic, truth lying within,
in these dying words, may all truly live.
The wish that I have, unfulfilled,
may all work towards, a future completely fulfilled.

Usher in
a long taffeta skirt,
pearl earrings and delicate hands.
Horn-rimmed glasses
on the man you saw at the grocery store.
Children still in their winter boots,
a frozen sunset glowing on round cheeks.
Smile at them,
agree with them.
Yes it's a cold one out there.
The fire laughs behind you.
Tea and memories of home
warm your throat.
Is this where you thought you'd be?
Ask yourself.
Write the answer on a piece of paper,
crumple it in your fist
and throw it in the flames.
Fuel.
Thank everyone for coming.

I weaponized love, collected the
pheromones of
                        every smile.
A heart beat,  
    my hands laid upon everyone.

I stole one maybe
                           two seductively,
They thought I was smitten with
there motions.
                     But I stole every petal
that had laid upon there blossoming eyes.

I will steal every happiness,
                                      that is gloated
from the hands of others
                                       to feed ego's whims.
Where they stole the reflections of others hearts.
And I slept, why they wept on lonely pillows...