like candles we are born in perfect form, some would say, soon to be lit at the wick by passions and hurtful words and then we melt away into the shape we are not destined to take but begin to take and its our aroma that attracts attention, sometimes it's our color but mostly it's that in which we cannot see.

Never in my life
Have I've heard
Anything good
Escape your mouth
In regards to me

I am a **** stained smear  
At the bottom of your loafers
Bird **** droppings atop
Your prized buntal brim

Your eyes for me
Holds no sparkle
Or joy or love
For that matter

Only contempt
At the thought
That I am your seed

You spit phlegm
In spite
Of my existence
A regurgitated reminder
Of you

There are no complexities
In truth of procreation

I am the
Mirrored continuance
Of your self-hate
At war with myself

In a battle
Where no one
The victor

Covered in
**** stained shame
A biblical ***
Resign
To live life
Shunned

At the bottom
Of your
Shiny
Brand
New
Shoes

she wore her scorn

as tempting as

her little black dress

venus fly trap

I have given you everything
All my time
My thoughts
My words
My heart
And you aren't even there
I'm ready to ******* shoot up
Some ****** tennis court
Not that I ever would
Godfuckingdammit
It is unacceptable for you to do this to me
Because despite what I've
Showcased in the past
I am far different than I once was
When you first met me
You have to understand
I will not be spending
Three ******* months chasing
Your cheating loser ***
Because as much as I have
And still do
Love you
I will not be that girl again
So darling,
It's time to ******* man up
Because you're really ******* me off

Every artist has his own stroke, creates his own distinctive masterpiece. he realises, art is subjective and is incomparable. he knows every writer has his own collection of words that personify transcendence. There are uncanny strokes of paint brushes; drops of ink that transudate out on pieces of parchment;  he understands.
But then again when it comes down to him, the voice within his head that is clubbed along with introvert in him, the constant thought to remain an incognito and the feeling that throws him into a chasm of loneliness, makes him tally himself against the odds and deadpan.

Sigh. Not nice in Nice.

We live in a lifetime
that fears not dying from
illness or old age, but instead
from terror attacks.

A lifetime governed by fear.
What kind of life is that?

We live in a lifetime
that dying from the inevitable,
that dying from the formidable,
is a path we hope for.

A lifetime forced to fear.
What kind of life is that?

We live in a lifetime
that is continuously reminded of death
that stays shut up
that hobbies in fear
that losses dreams
that dreads.

What kind of life is that?
And seldom do we focus on what it is to live
And maybe it's beginning to look unavoidable?
Even still, sigh, I will continue to fight the fear.

I died daily but you resurrected me with every good morning.
I'll tell you that love plucked me like a guitar.
Love made me feel beautiful, but I only got played.

I'll tell you that love cannot do math
because if he did, he'd know that
subtracting himself from the equation would leave me a 0.
I'll tell you that love is a game of tag.
They always end up running away.
I'll tell you that love has engraved his name on my soul
and when I die I'll only see the mark that he's left on me.

I know how to question
Authority
Now someone teach me to question
Reasonably
Why everyone settles for
Mediocrity.

I'm not
Passive
But I get
Aggressive
When society becomes
Dismissive.

Art is not a
Perforation
On an
Illustration
Of paper-doll cutouts of
Creation.

But somewhere we lost
Authenticity
With our former
Intricacies
And were stripped of all
Legitimacy.

all i want to do
is preach

about how much i don't care

like maybe
if i say it enough times

these idiots might finally believe me