This poem may  
be lovely or
clever, but it is
analogy, made
of appearances,
insubstantial, like
a finely attired,
beautiful corpse.

I'm pretty sure everything I say
is just a quiet cry for help.
I express my joy, a smile on my face—
but if you read between the lines,
you'll see me melt.

I mask my pity in beautiful words,
my word *****—
strung into sonnets,
and called art.

I beg them to read,
to open their eyes and see,

to hear at my pleas—
look at me, and weep.

But I'm a pathetic poet,
I yearn to be understood.
Yet, they only read my work,
and call it good.

She was always the poet,
but never the poem—
left aching to be unveiled,
forever waiting in the unknown.

She yearns to be a muse,
the subject of every scribe,
inked into love letters,
inspiring a guitar's stride.

But they touched her like plastic
on golden chocolate—
cast her off like *******,
forgotten and discarded.

When I sit alone,
Someone will ask, “Can I use this chair?”
Then carry it to another table
To laugh with friends over there—
Leaving me, still and silent,
Closed off like a clam.

What will I leave
when I leave
a bunch of words
for someone to read?

What will I leave
when I leave
memories of a life less lived?

What will I leave
when I leave
dreams that remained unfulfilled?

Whatever I leave behind
will stay behind.
Not be my companion
in that other world.

This life is
really not so poetic.
It's dreary and empty,
and almost ordinary.
These poems are but therapy-
an attempt to make sense of
this world and all emotions
that come with living in it.
They're a coping mechanism to
work through the pain and
better understand oneself.