She is the serrated edge
of the broken
wine glass
carving up my face
leaving open wounds
where she touched
me
all that remains of us
is
deeply
painful memories
and the scars
of moments past.

I don't know how to
touch your heart
or create an art
bring you the sun
or spill some fun
stop the rain
or heal your pain
but I know
someday
we'll know.

I don't know how to
kiss you so sweet
or sweep you off your feet
crawl up to bed
or make me stay in your head
touch you with passion
or ****** with an action
but I bet
together
we're off and set.

I don't know how to
to bring the perfect words
into a perfect poetry
or heal your deepest wounds
with my sweetest melody
an excitement for a night
with subtle sensitivity
but what is only known
to someone like me
I will always be waiting
til the sun meets the sea.

I'm sick of writing *******
angst fueled piles of
**** poems about how much
I think about stupid *******
and how I sickly miss their sadistic
tendencies exercised upon my
unsuspecting psyche.

I write of greys and nothings
and try to create murky landscapes
because I'm ******* bored and high
and I know that kind of ****
resonates with some of you creepy *******.

I wrote so many ******* poems for her,
for you, dearest.
So many poems I thought you would see
how much I love you, how much I would give all of myself.
For nothing.
I told you no the other day,
after not hearing from you for months.
That twisted my guts but I asked
my sister what to do and she is
one of the few creatures with a ******
I trust.

I'm sick of reading other peoples
**** of lost love and broken hearts
and **** gone wrong and he loves
her but she likes ***** and *******
empty heads smashing empty hearts
and abuse and neglect and so many
******* gut wrenching tales of woe
it makes me sad to be a part of this..
pathetic conglomeration of fools, humans.

Sure, there is some positive **** out there,
but even that makes me want to puke.
I'm envious and doubtful, cynical and jaded.

I want to believe my one is out there,
but I'm not getting any prettier
or any smarter
and I have grown weary of
even trying to try.

I'm tired and ******
and I just want a soft
sweet smelling pile of flesh
next to me rubbing my
temples and whispering in my ear
stories of bugs and latex body paint
and what dress she is going to wear
for me.

****.

I'm tired of writing poems like this
and I'm tired of reading poems like this
and I only want a sweet dripping ***** on my face.
I never claimed to be a poet.

What could've been there, we don't seem to know.
Deep inside, I wanted to be all that your soul ever wanted.
But I know,
I knew even before,
that when the time comes that I need to know the truth,
it would be the most painful one.
That day came like a bitter storm on a sunny summer day.
Slowly,
it has torn
even
the thinnest
piece
of faith
I had
for myself.
It was nothing for a goner like me to taste such bittersweet kiss of reality.
It was all natural, so typical,
very fantastical, extremely tragical.
Surely, it wasn't me all along.
It wasn't me alone.
It was never me.
I know, there are things I thought I knew and understood well:
things I thought were real,
things I knew were just so fine.
I gave up on the idea of nothingness despite the vague feel.
I set it aside, knowing that there might have been, just hidden.
But, of course, everything was plain wrong;
it wasn't surprising, though!
Guess I just got the price for having hoped too much on things that seemed real.
Well, they seemed to be the greatest stuff I'd ever felt,
after a long while.
At least, it was.
It really was until I had to realize it wasn't.
Accept. Regret. Forget.
I tried to release the tension in my head.
I tried [so hard] to cover those tears up, until I'm all alone.
I tried to shake it off,
stroll around the city,
see some happy faces,
read a boring notebook,
or just hang in there and look for some pain again.
I tried, I swear, I tried until I finally grew tired.
Because in everything I had to do, I just have to think there was you,
who had been there all along to make me realize such dismal truth,
that once in my life, I met someone, thought he was the one,
but broke it all in just a while with his cold song.
And once again, I knew, I felt
I was falling in love
With someone,
*Alone.