Afflicted upon by mass ****** suffering.
Unable to decipher whether internally or ex.
I tremble under the wash of black that engulfs all light touches.
Blurred vision, impaired by sheer surprise.
Alone and ripe.
Black and blue.
Inside and out.
I fight for nothing;
For a man that knows no loyalty.
Broken hand.
Broken heart.
Broken home.
Four years of come and go,
Two and fro,
Back and fourth,
Lie some more.
Four years I'd loved him.
Forever in my heart.
Foolish I chose such, no honor,
no respect.
Little effort. Lazy ***.

If I could still write poetry-

I'd write about how you betrayed me.
I'd make it a lyrical nursery
That gently cradled all my insecurities.

They'd bounce around from wave to wave,

Like an ominous symphony.
Synomous to love,
yet fueled by defeat.

If I could still write poetry.

I'd write about being second best,
I'd write about losing you, and
Above all else- losing rest.

If I could somehow still write-

Maybe this feeling would flee.
Perhaps then I could show you.
Perhaps then you could see.

In a world of reality and concrete,
We exist in opposition.
While you reside in the physical and tangible,
I resonate in the mystical.  
Our realms do not meet.

If I could alter my position in the stars,
For you I would.
I'd skew the right angle at which we sit
So we could finally see eye-to-eye.

I would be the flames for your airy aura to feed.  

If I could-
I would..

Lamenting lost love
hidden behind harmonies,
(synonymous to symphony)
resonates absently.
Like making love
to a stranger.
Like you make love
to me.
Void of all passion,
like revenge of apathy.
Apathetic entirely,
the emptiness that fuels you
emphasizes decrees.
Standard-less standards
validate your need
to dismantle the mantled,
and devour the diseased,
to command and to seize,
to exploit the exploited,
and explore every scene—
every pelvis, and every scream.

How did I fall for such a—
loveless being?
Better yet,
How do I disintegrate re-memories,
Or abolish aplitic fallacies,
and survive soullessly?
(How must I do these things!?)
Here I plead
surrounded, unattentively,
summoning recognition
for the being
whom resides in me.

Resurrecting old wounds,
(chore almost seems daily)
almost seems like it’s alive,
like maybe one day
it might save me.
More likely, one day
it will concave me.  

But without knowledge
there is no upset.
And no upset means
no you and me.