A flower is poetically redundant,
I'd rather use a bomb with wires -red, green, and blue.
Cut one, let's see if she loves me!

I have lost.
Count.
Or stopped.
Counting..
On others.
I exhale.
To dispell.
Hopeless.
Nights.
As i drag.
Heavy.
Feet.
To.
Ward.
The darkness.
I fall.
Tier after.
Tear.
To tare.
A.
way.
Sadly.
Division wins.
Again.

You are the cause of your own suffering*
I tell myself everyday,
but I still bathe in silt and shame.
Rinse. Recycle. Repeat.

I tell myself everyday
how mundane it is to be redundant:
Rinse. Recycle. Repeat.
Everybody that looks at me sees

how mundane it is to be redundant.
You only get one masterpiece;
everybody that looks at me sees
that's not a rainbow, it's an oil spill.

You only get one masterpiece,
but I still bathe in silt and shame -
that's not a rainbow, it's an oil spill.
You are the cause of your own suffering.

Redundant sexless girl
Unable to fulfill your biological purpose
The species will not continue
- Not from your *****.
Your womb is dried up
The monthly cleanse broken
Interrupted
Your ovaries cry out-
The rain does not come
The rain does not come
The rain does not come
To wash away the old
Prepare for the
Coiling, growing, emerging
The innocence to be birthed
And spoiled by this world's evil.
Redundant sexless girl
Drained of life-giving blood
Drained of nurturing power
Drained of womanhood
Redundant sexless girl
Barren girl
What use have you?
What purpose?
What right have you to still walk this most fertile Earth?

Redundancy.
I read my words
and I’m sickened,
that you had this
effect on me. I read
them and I’m fatigued
by the redundancy.
I have nothing to say
that hasn’t been said
in the same way
only reconstructed
to better play the illusion
of new ideas and
some sort of change.
There is always the basis
the substance of being
the substance being
my overactive feelings
and constant repression
of what makes me alive—
this feeds the depression
and I cry when I think
and I’m dead when I don’t
I’m lying when I speak
and lying when I don’t
I’m fighting every day
my feelings when I
have them, and finding
every day, I have more than
I can fathom, and I can’t
always put into words
how or why I feel things
so I tend to repeat
what comes naturally
and when I reread
I am exhausted by
my own redundancy.

I go through the days
Thinking about what makes me happy
But I sometimes realize
I don't want happiness
I don't desire assured satisfaction
I wish to feel human
To feel desolate
To feel my pain
To feel true life
A foundation of depression
A sense of isolation
To comfort my shell
Of what I used to be