I gave All of my vulnerability away
For you, to you
Exposed the dirt of my soul
Not understood.
Kept on
Waiting for hope,

in despair.

To stay away from the bodies of other beings
To keep a safe distance
To deny the pleasure of touch,

As much to make it seem a new concept
We’ve been distancing long before the panic spread

To stay away from feeling other’s feelings
To keep a safe distance
To deny the vulnerability of connection,

Give credit where it’s due
To distance is the best we do.

A chill of Styx water runs through my heart,
Arrows cannot reach it, I will not let them.

To do so is to die,
Please understand.

Shots of Phlegethon stopped reaching my tears,
Too many times have I gone mad from it's flames.

I would rather forget,
All that icy pain.

When I die from this curse of long-lost touch,
Send me to corrode on the banks of the Lethe.

The news broke into his place
when he was less prepared.
It entered through the window

like a common thief
took that which was most precious:
all his future dreams,

far and dark
in the mystical place of the deep.
It hurts

as if you squeezed the ice-skating rink
frozen he goes,
undetectable to the eye.

Commuting next to you,
in 25 D, from Banbury to Birmingham,
for him, is not a breeze.

Poetry is an act of narcissism.
Poetry is screaming into the ears of other people.
Poetry is the art of begging strangers to look inside your mind.
Poetry is therapy with the ******* cashflow reversed.
Poetry is an act of narcissism.
This poem is a cry for forgiveness.
I wish I could call It an epilogue, but that it is not.

Hi, I am the poet and I am also an addict.
I am addicted to the attention and love of other people.
I am addicted to the feedback and approval of other people.
I’m 20 and I still act like I’m the only person on earth.
It probably has something to do with my parents.
Or any other way I can shovel the blame off myself.

Sometimes I hate selfless people because I wish I could be like them.
I have not said that out loud before.
I never ******* grew up.
I have not said that out loud before.

Today I spent £20 of my Mother’s money because I convinced myself I deserved it,
Because It’s hard getting out of bed,
Right?
                                                                                 Please see my thoughts.

Today I convinced myself it’s not my fault I get jealous of other people,
I’m a blameless product of my upbringing,
Right?
                                                                          Please tell me they are okay.

Today I wrote this poem and lay in bed,
And you should pat me on the back for that,
Right?
                         ART IS DEAD WE KILLED IT ARE YOU HAPPY NOW


Poetry is an act of narcissism.
I am a poet.
Forgive me.
Forgive me.
Forgive me.
Forgive me.
Forgive me.

Some nights you
were the moon.
Sailing through waves of milk
Before disappearing
into the vulnerability
Of what we keep on the inside.
It's no wonder why cookies
Are so popular.
The outer edge
drenched in saliva,
Curiously protecting
what's kept Precious.
A slight pause before everything
Is mushed & swallowed.
Some nights you were the moon.
Drenched in white fudge
Swirling in a universe all of your own.
Some nights you were the universe
Itself