Oh how I wish for my poems to be read
How I wish for them to be adored
"Just be patient", they said.
I don't want to be ignored

It's getting out of line
Inexperienced and no worth
Help wanted said the sign
Wanting this depth be unearthed

I'm done with writing ****

I’m a cliché.
I’m a walking broken piece of glass,
insisting my glimmer is different
than all of the other fissures of society.
I seem to think there is something romantic
about living like I hate myself.
I am not only comfortable with being unhealthy,
I welcome it with kisses and perfume.

chest pressure like a wasted life
hiding from the possibility
of living I have never spilled these
few years into anything
except for everything
this is the unbeatable monster of
nothingness and robotic arrogance
of undeniable certainty
I AM TRUTH I HAVE TRUTH
spilling over my cup runneth over with
disdain and my teeth are sour
from sleeping I hate the taste
of sleep
in my mouth like over-chewed mint gum
cliche stories have never
clicked with me
I would like to watch you smile for
a few hours before I believe
the pressure in my chest is
legitimate life will die
'***** u man in sky'
I believe that this will not

Oh, I bare my tragic soul
And grow as an artist
One pinky up my nose
See my toes
Curl up
See my *** clench so tight
As I sigh and moan
All **** night
Cause I am an artist
Sweet sad me
What a genius
More because
My town can’t see
The brilliance
Of poor old torture me
Boo hoo hoo
The tired cliché
Like that tired phrase
All Van Gogh
One ear off
And one left to go
I think you all should know
I am only so, so,
So, so
So you know
All angsty stuff
All suicide rage
All depressive love
And lonely days
Poor, poor, poor me
My life is like a tragedy
Insert tears
Insert sob story
Insert boring prologue
About how nobody knows me
Insert a laugh
No x that **** out
Cause I am a very, very serious artist
But this poem is only a mockery
Of poor, sad, pathetic little old me

Sleeping for what felt like an eternity
Was really only an hour
When the time I spent with you was a blink
In the forever of my life.

I wanted to write a book of us
But you left me only a page
For myself,
And for you, together

If I could stay unconscious forever
Our book would be endless
Chapters upon chapters
Of love without loss

Yet here I am
Gasping for breath, startled from my slumber
Your face in my dreams, a surge of adrenaline
Blank pages in my lap