I miss you something awful
and it hurts real bad.
Today I cried because I realized
You'll never want me back
I'm a mess, I'm a project:
I am charity work you took on.
You loved me and I you,
But in a blink you were gone.
Now I feel like a part of me's missing
Because it liked you more.
I guess I didn't realize
You and I were at war.
Well baby, you win
To the victor do the spoils go.
You have my heart still
And my promise isn't broke.
You're beautiful; spectacular
Please don't change a thing.
I love you, you wonderful man,
Even though to you I am nothing

This is stupid
and stereotypical,
I know.

Every poet asks themselves,
"Am I really a poet?"

Every poet reflects on
their surroundings, their life,
their thoughts.

Every poet has been sad
more than once
in a day.

We're all emotional,
we're all craving release,
an outlet to drain away
the sorrows,
to give our feelings
a physical form.

But in this poem,
I want you to know something:

it's okay to not be okay,
it's okay to feel like ****,
it's okay to give up.

It's okay to give yourself to pain,
let go of your surroundings and
shrink into yourself.
It's okay to want to die.

Do you know why?

Once you understand this
and acknowledge it,
you are free to change.

You are free to pursue whatever
happiness you desire,
to give yourself to bliss
rather than to guilt.

It's okay to want things,
it's okay to feel undeserving
when you do.

It shows you're not stuck
in one place,
intentionally or not.

You are human,
forever changing and
evolving.

You are still young and growing.
So make your mistakes while you
still feel the need.

My dear,
you are not perfect.
You will never be perfect,
and that's okay.

Because if you were perfect,
it wouldn't be you.

Black and bruised cats are collecting in the streets
as they try to hide from the two-legged monsters,
Onto the frigid ground these felines lay so sweet.

Now, these cats are innocent beings, but the world still sees
these rulers of the night as demons, the haunters.
Black and bruised cats are collecting in the streets

to pray for poor Lulu, once a gentle and upbeat
stray, now nothing more than a beaten piece of meat, a goner.
Onto the frigid ground these felines lay so sweet.

These two-legged fiends thirst for the warmth of blood, to defeat
the plague of evil omens these cuddly harlots seem to foster.
Black and bruised cats are collecting in the streets

sick and mangled from the Devil’s calling group, two-legged deceit,
what was thought to be love was in truth, an imposter.
Onto the frigid ground these felines lay so sweet.

A fluffy body hung from the balcony by a copper cable marks the ritual complete, the black tufts of fur serve as a reward to those monsters.
Black and bruised cats are collecting in the streets,
Onto the frigid ground these felines lay so sweet.

Destroyed city scapes lifted from concrete prisons,
old white men in traditional Native-American headdress,
a broken sky with holes dropping satan-spawn...

Flowers turning to sickly people,
their petals becoming their bodies,
their stems becoming their eyes,
their pollen becoming polluting coughs.

Eyes crying infected blood,
teeth dripping sour milk,
stomachs shouting for more bread crust,
hands becoming stubs,
unable to grasp the meaning of life.

Noses expelling gastric juices,
legs becoming hairy arms,
hairy arms becoming the nostrils,
does becoming pointed talons,
clawing away at the filaments,
of flesh and bone.

There is always method
to my madness.