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.

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 hell 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?

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.

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"

most endeavors
include a honeymoon effect
but all have a wall
a hurdle so great
that if overcome
will change
the very essence
of who you are
who you will be
a great transformation

why it is like this
I don't know
I myself
have yet to climb
sucessfully
get me
out of this place
and escape
this wretched
meaningless existence

a second chance is b'yond compare
to silver or gold in worth
unlike the simple, gay affairs
it's forgiveness, undeserved

for every race a prize is earned
and the grueling toil, a wage
but when the jury has adjourned
retribution must be paid

though critics rush to state a case
where criminals still walk free
while evil runs it's crooked ways
death claims both the strong and meek

so before you go your separate ways
offer them another chance
it's not like you have never had
a bit of fire on your pants

and when you get another try
do not let it fail in vain
you never know when you will come by
another "try try again"

i just think that it lacks subtlety
to type out words so loose and free
from rhyme, they are but conscious streams
deserve not, the name, poetry

and, in my opinion, it is a sin
to explain a poem, it's adolescence
to spoil the hidden secret within
for the art of lyric is not a whim

my poems are so much better than yours
for they sound like the songs of yore
and if they do contain a lore
it needs no explanation, of course!

now, take this with a grain of salt
for those who tend to be appalled
by the insensitive, one with the gall
to criticize and not applaud

or appreciate the messages
written by one's fellow poets
this act, which mutiny, approaches
unfeeling soul, the heart, atrocious!

i'm actually just kidding around
with ideas of an unknowing crowd
whose opinions are just so... profound
for some reason, it makes them proud

and who might I be speaking to?
what sane person is such a fool?
a younger me, lacking reprove
had the daring to be so rude

i can feel
your scorching gaze on my skin
searching, probing
and then easing
when you find
that my author
was not that stupid
to create
a debacle

for poems are sheets
designed to capture meaning
ad infinitum

happiness
saddness
permeate
culture
etched into
paper
taking no form
fluid
changing
free