Instinct becomes arbitrary when my willpower deters my integrity
Aspirations are mere illusion when my intuition exceeds my ailing grasp

A ******* creep of disintegrating fantasies releases
a
sense
of realism.

Nicotine surfs my limbs
as thoughts align with tectonic disasters.

Malice masks insinuating balance,
An inevitable roar of discontent prefaces
A cruising tune of initiated indifference
yet hope

I stare into your eyes
Wondering what they hold
Mostly what kind of lies
You were so so cold.

It begins with accusations
Prefaces and falsehoods
Locking me in damnation
Telling me what I could and should.

It's true you never honest
But you kept me wanting
You were forever my fondest
I never knew it would be haunting

Despite all this I still love you
I just want you to love me too.

As I consumed by infinite numbers,
conservative prefaces,
artificial growths,
meaningful labels;
dreadful sins will always be as they are
forever stretching out The Love and a pity
become a perpetual giant concrete wall in between
don’t them all owe me a bottle of heady wine nor just a thank
o, o, o, please,
my heart is already ******!
poured up by their tang of lies
how can I ask for help in a myriad of plastic hearts?

Thorns cut so deep
they broke through the barrier
of my hard whipped flesh.

  They were coarse,
they were harsh,
and barbed with
the ambiance of
torment.

They pricked at my skin,
ushering up trickles
of crimson.

   The small droplets and lines
  of such a vibrant color
coated my skin in the
philosophy of neglect and
malnutrition of empathy.

Thorns wrapped themselves
around my body, encompassing
them in a way that showed
no
mercy.

I was the result of such an action,
I was cut and bleeding,
and yet I remained standing,
for the pain and torment of the
lingering thorns and their
barbed prefaces became
a part of me.

this poem might be
the hardest to write ever

because i promised myself
i would be genuine

not exaggerate
not tell lies

so i guess
i should get started

and leave the prefaces to
the famous authors

not the poets
or the lost ones

--------------------

i have something to say to
you

you, who is beautiful
despite every word thrown from

an unknown hand
across a glass screen

you, who is beautiful
despite every scar or burn

or open wound you
inflicted on yourself

you, who is beautiful
despite every raised hand

and every shard of broken glass
in class, the kids with no faces and too much to say

you, who is beautiful
despite note you wrote and crumpled up

you used to write i'm sorry into your skin
but you have nothing to be sorry about

you, who is beautiful
despite everything anyone ever said to you

or anything you ever said
to yourself

you are still alive and alive and alive
because now the storm is over

and it's time for the rainbows to shine