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Zack 1d
I was told
in grade school
that diamonds are made of coal,
that
immense
immeasurable pressure alone
would give us
what we want.

What if
my lattice structure
the inner composition of my being
was imperfect?
Would I not collapse
my core rupture
and my remains combust
leaving behind nothing
to remember
my existence?

I heard
that the way these jewels are polished
was to throw them into a vessel
with a thousand little pebbles
to grind the the surfaces smooth.

The layers
eroded away,
do they mean nothing?
Are they inconsequential?
A burden
to our respective existence?

I believed
that I was someone special,
hidden gem in the rough
all I have to do is trust
that I can be anything.

Now I know
that I may not be
out of the ordinary.
That I can not be anything
I want to be.
I can dream
I can achieve
I can discover
I can live,
but of all the things in the world
I cannot be
a diamond.
Zack Feb 4
Train tracks, notebooks, bridges, buildings,
and a billion other things
in nature, you will rarely find
yet to us, they, order bring.

If they're really so common place
from windows to honey bees.
why does my heart so awfully ache
the great distance now I see.

For basic math does specify
that lines with exact same slopes
in either directions you try
meet not, no matter the hope.

Valleys, mountains, forest of trees,
no distance is quite so far
but what to do, if geometry
quietly keeps us apart?

Now I realize that fate and time
do often travel in lines.
our future, I may never find,
and for that my soul does cry.

Will it be simple accident,
Or depend on God's great wrath?
For now, I will traverse to find
a perpendicular path.
Nerds have it rough.
Zack Feb 1
I have been once before this told
that the true meaning of insane
was to repeat any result
and not have expected the same

and despite all that here i am
with my head in shock and shambles
too fast, too soon, in love again
so much for learning from gambles

whatever i was meant to be
mature or yet another farce
oh torture and its parities
i fear i must with reason part

shall i long for proximity
or pine for needy attention
become nuisance implicitly
face certain, solemn rejection

or should i now hope not at all
bury myself in burning pain
of misery henceforth recall
and enter a state of insane?

i am not a blithering fool
i know that lasting love takes time
that feelings like rain drops will pool
that mind and heart slowly align

yet of no matter what i think
trying truly to go to bed
i know i will not sleep a wink
because you're stuck inside my head
im just trying desperately trying to get this out. for those of you who know this immature, spontaneous feeling, i hope youll forgive the cheesiness. at the very least, if it doesnt end well for me, i promise to write about pizza.
Zack Jul 2018
People are always curious about why I’m a cynic. There is never a reason to be; a cynic doubts without reservation. Though in some sense a follower of pragmatism, one sees so little. There is no beauty in the world, because all beauty is a construct of perception. I’ve been cynical for long enough (I hope) that I can speak for my version.
It’s simple.
Step 1) Take a critic.
Step 2) Define them: someone who prioritizes the flaws above any other characteristics in a subject matter.
Step 3) Put them through hours of mental torture and sadness.
Step 4) Shoot them in the foot for no apparent reason.
Congratulations, you have successfully evolved a critic into a cynic.
To all the people who have been a victim of my cynicism, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to impress my own misfortunes upon you, I just got rejected. I hope you understand.
I'm taking a break from poems
Zack Jul 2018
Maybe I love too easily. Maybe that’s why I have felt the sorrow of “so close and yet so far” one too many times. Every time, I tell myself it will be the last time. And every time, I still break to pieces. Within this shell hides a sensitive hermit crab, dead without shelter. Unrequited love is the pair of satanic tweezers that unleashes the **** of nakedness. I hate it. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.
I’ll be alright. I’ll live another day, fight another fight. It’s. Just. So. Hard. It’s like the worst disappointment in the world has the behavioral traits of a moth. Why do I fall so easily each and every single time? Am I a fool? Is fool just another name for a hopeless romantic?
I'm taking a break from poems
Zack Jul 2018
The physical symptoms are unmistakable. The tightening of the chest. The quickness of breath. The mental longing that doesn’t go away, that doesn’t falter or get distracted. This is what love is at the very surface, but man is it hard to control. It’s as if everything else in the universe suddenly took a plunge in stock value and the only thing worth investing any amount of time in was that person. I don’t know who it might be for you. For me, it’s a girl. For me, it’s someone I’d like to spend the rest of my days with, the rest of time with if possible. It is someone I would die for, and more importantly, someone I would live for.
Sue me. Martyr me for the cheesiness I’m spewing. That doesn’t matter. Literally nothing else does. It means something, it means I’m human. Above the hopeless expanse of responsibilities and tasks exists still a space in my soul for someone else. Well, to lose that is to be human, too, I guess.
I'm taking a break from poems
Zack Jun 2018
seemingly out of nowhere
it takes form, in the shape of a sharp comment
a rough touch, a raised voice
the embodiment of entropy
disregarding the fragile peace of sanity
surges with the strength of an emotional riptide
threatening to drag me into its tumultuous depths

my avatars left formless
a terror to loved ones
like wild fire, without restraints
burning the rope bridges of relationships
ever consuming
until I'm left gazing at what I have lost
a lonely recovery amid the ashes of regret
my soul screams
"I had a bad day"
frustration is often unintentional.
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