It is not wrong to love someone endlessly.
To shatter in the thought of the loss of that person.
Cowering in fear of that person departing is a very natural reaction to have.
Loving myself hasn’t been enough for me.
I love her.
I think that is a courageous act to know that you love someone so much that if you were to lose them, it’s imminent that you would crumble.
I enjoy the thought of that.
I enjoy being in absolute love.

I refuse to know you through a digital point of view.
I wanna see you unfiltered on the first take.
I wanna hear the first words that sprouts from your mouth that you think is a mistake.
I wanna see you before coffee in the morning.
I wanna see you when you’re having a lousy day.
I wanna see the organic flawed person that show their true feelings.
Let me see the beauty behind the mask.
Your true self.
For human sake.

I’ve become selfish with my poems.
I’ve started not to care about the quality of them.
“That’s so beautiful” they would say.
Now I just want it to be unappreciated.
I don’t care for the oohs and awes.
Those are the times when I would write for others.
Now I write for myself.
This a ugly mess relating to only me.
To write about how I truly feel.
To care not what others think.
Like it or love it.
It’s no longer significant.
The long extended detail poems are contrary to how I feel now.
A man of few words.
The words I know are no longer adequate.
I am depressed and I never knew that poetry wouldn’t be enough to describe my situation.
It’s made me selfish. I don’t care to explain.
I just reluctantly strive to get over this ****.

How genuine of you to only think of my value in a transactional view.
As we debate on the topic of generosity, strolling along the lines of what the attributes of an authentic person is according to the confused world’s unstable dictionary.
It’s simple you see, you see digital scriptures that explain the indicators of what such would appear as and we all forgot our own flaws, the construct of what makes up human beings and it is sickening to watch.
It is the most despicable traits that are being championed.

I wanted to expand my art.
I thought of many ways of how you make me feel, many images populated inside of my head.
I thought of how I could write this into words but a painting or drawing would be better.
How could I describe when you entered my life?
I thought of love and happiness.
I thought of the sweet smell of clean fresh air entering my nostrils.
A cup of hot Ethiopian coffee paired with the morning sunshine.
I thought of many things but I wasn’t happy when I met you.
I was the graphic of blue.
Blue like the deepness of the night.
Blue like the absence of light.
I was utterly blue so sorry but this is my imagination of you…
The golden hand with a picture with red hot liquid pouring into a deceased blue heart. This is your meaning.
A human capable of revival.
So with the love that I received from you, I offer it all and more back to you.
I love you.

You find yourself coasting through a dark ocean and nothing but still air.
There’s no enjoyment in what you feel.
Everything just filters through.
Anger isn’t anger.
Happiness isn’t happiness.
As if you are numb, even being numb doesn’t feel like a feeling at all.

I’ve been swimming in a mucky puddle with my mouth open wide.
The soiled water keeps rushing in.
I place my hands over my face to reflect the downpour but it still continues to breach my blockade.
I’m so exhausted, I’m pinned, I’m fully expended.
I accept it because my legs are too weak to stand and my arms are too numb from opposing.
Thoughts cross my mind of ambitious attempts of freedom but my eyes are too hazy to see the light.
I fall weightlessly to the solid ground.
Hollowed or rather expired from my dissolved resolve.
I’m withering in the bright of summer.