im a poet
the words surround me
chock me

im a poet
and because of that
its hard to tell if all this stuff-
this pain, love, beauty
is all in my head
just in my mind

but even my non poetic counterparts
see pain
love
and there idea of beauty

but what if my mind is reality
or maybe reality is a much less sinister
version of my mind

its a funny thought
but lets face
mind and reality
may tie into each
but only when your trying to distinguish them apart

your filthy
you reek of  individuality
how dare you be such a mess
don't worry society can fix
after all they fixed all the other kids

with there blank stares
they confom
because now they don't care

now run along to the washing machine
and clean yourself up

but i don't want to go in the machine
its an hour
of turning and turning
over agian
till your rid of all stench

years later
i miss your mess
i miss the stench
and now i'm alone
once more
now your a shiny mirror
you only mimick
you conform

conformity is the biggest diseases  we face. it can **** an individual and only leave a husk

i feel cold
i feel like i'm stuck in a hole
i feel like i'm dying
wait- no i feel something different
a yearn, a want
a plead for death
its my fault
its all fualt
i feel guilty
when i've done nothing wrong
now they've got me on meds
i don't want to be happy
if i'm not really happy
but instead being ****** over in the head

are you fine?
yes of course, don't worry

my fridge is stocked
thats a good thing right?
unless its the same food
for a week, un touched in the slightest

you wont eat
"are you anorexic, my friend?"
"yes" the words flow into me like a million blades in my blood
but i smile and say, i'll help you

you start to eat
your getting better
my best friend is getting better

my friend..."your fat"

i remember saying that to you
all those years ago
i started this

i hear the sound of gagging filling the halls
i run to you there
besides the toilet
face expressionless, eyes cold

how could you?

you lie down, and i remember that its my fault

this is all my fault , right?
yes
i'm sorry
pretty late isn't it?
what do you mean?
i'm already dead

and with that theres a pounding in your head
there tears in your eyes
and you realize
this is all a lie

when i thought you were getting better, it was a way to cope with the fact that you had died
i lied-
to myself
to you

guilt, turns a person mad and forces them into the truth
even if they cant mange to swallow it

whats the point of falling
if at the bottom theres no balloons
or pillow to soften then blow

you hurt me

whats the point in falling
if you only end up
hitting the hard concrete floor

spill blood

whats the point of falling
of taking a risk
if you know for a fact
that when you fall
in your finally moments before hitting the ground
no one will catch you

whats the point of loving you?

society has drugged some people into the idea that if we have money we will be happy
Turning people into brainless hungry zombie
Never having a enough
Always searching the lowest of wastelands for more

Society has built us into soldiers
Robotic and grey
Gave of us the ability to make choices
But put us on restricted mode
the robots are slowly turning to rust
Yet they march forever more

Society has given a dystopia
Out of a utopia
By making us feel like we have choices
distracting us
Lying  and saying
That everything fine
But the air is ash
And our minds are trash

the modern apocalypse

I'm sick of love
I'm tired of the crows tearing me apart
and feasting on my heart
instead i seek pain
something to keep my mind stable
because crows are birds
part of nature
they don't realize what they are doing

i'm tired of of being sick
not with the cold or flue -
but love
instead I seek the cold and painful air
to surround me in a suffocating hug

i'm tired of my heart beating fast
no instead i need it to be calm
and steaady
because i have to be ready
in case love calls again
because they aren't ready
they aren't prepared for this

instead pain surrounded me
surround me with my own pain
or maybe yours
because i love the pain
it hurts just as much love