It's not worth the poetry
      unless it touches on the heart of humanity

Is a poet still a poet
If they do not write?

A journal gathering dust,
But a yearning to write.
Am I still a poet
Without my inner light?

Demons are only real because we create them;
Because we plant them there and water them;
Because we inherit them;
We breed the insanity; feed the flames.

We embrace them,
Like they're the only friends we've got;
The only ones who stuck.
We hate them, but we love them to stay,

And keep us company,
Because if not, there'd only be emptiness;
Emptiness that begins to rot inside you,
And drives you straight to the devil himself.

I hate you

thank you for making me smile today

I love you too

𝙸𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝟷𝟼 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜
𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎
𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎
𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝.
𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚊𝚖
𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑
𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚎,
𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸’𝚖 𝚜𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚢
𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚃𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢.

I am empty
He is gone
My life is heavy
He has fled
I am listening
To the void  
Yet hear nothing
Soaked in red
My baby brother
My best friend
Took the gun
Now he’s dead

We both rest in the void
Of the past, present, and future