I guess I'm just awkward.
They're always taken, aren't they?
Taken or uninterested.

And I always end up hurt even if it's not their intention.
Why?

I'm just too much
For anyone to love.

And that's only because
I'm so ready to love someone
So ready
But every time I find
Him or her
Each time I think
That I've found
THE one

They're taken.
Taken or uninterested.

When you're sad they never text first
But not surprised

Usually, waking up is
Like trying to crawl through
Razor wire while every
Bone in your body is screaming
At you to take a breather,
Because no matter what you do,
You will not be on time,
Ready to survive another day-
In five minutes.

I'm not sure if you understand
What it is like to have every
Single neuron in your brain
Speaking so loud you would think
You were at a show standing
In front of the speakers.

Living with depression and anxiety
Is difficult, my lack of motivation
Is only ******* by my fear
Of letting you down.
I am sorry that I can't
Show up smiling
Every morning.

I'm tired.

How hard can it be? Poetry can break the normal rules, or follow them just the same, or even yet write its own rules. There is no teacher breathing down my neck, holding my grade in a vice. Nobody is forcing me to write these poems, yet I feel compelled to create them.

Ive got so many words to describe just what I want, but somehow none sound right.

I know just what I want to say and who to say it to, but I can't confront these demons.

How can I have all the right words, but put them together all wrong?

Unlucky the hero born
In this province of the stuck record
Where the most watchful cooks go jobless
And the mayor's rôtisserie turns
Round of its own accord.

There's no career in the venture
Of riding against the lizard,
Himself withered these latter-days
To leaf-size from lack of action:
History's beaten the hazard.

The last crone got burnt up
More than eight decades back
With the love-hot herb, the talking cat,
But the children are better for it,
The cow milks cream an inch thick.

My thoughts are crabbed and sallow,
My tears like vinegar,
Or the bitter blinking yellow
Of an acetic star.

Tonight the caustic wind, love,
Gossips late and soon,
And I wear the wry-faced pucker of
The sour lemon moon.

While like an early summer plum,
Puny, green, and ****,
Droops upon its wizened stem
My lean, unripened heart.