Oh Darling, look at what you've done
Believed the tall tails of boys instead of the female at your feet
But why would you when you have an ego that towers over the David?
And you thought it was silly that I gifted you the name Michelangelo
I couldn't have picked more right
You though have forgotten that I am a master piece of my own creation, sculpted by none other but my own hands and never appreciated by yours
And my sweet Michelangelo, if you think to call yourself my muse then you are nothing more than a fool
For everything I have been through has led to my life's legacy
My family chiselled out the shape
My childhood chipped away at the detail
And men like you did nothing more than carve in the finishing touches
I am a beauty in my own right
And as always too much for some to handle, and never fully understood by the rest
But still she will live on through the ages
So the next time darling that you fall confused, I implore you to simply ask the master herself
And you would come to realize that this artist was far too focused on creating to let anyone interfere with her work

sparklers are for the people who
love more
than they could ever
be loved in return,
for the ones who
exhaust
extinguish
their own light for others
to only appreciate them
for a moment and then
be forgotten,
for those who run out in rainstorms
for people who won’t even
stay with them in the sunshine,
for the ones who wait until
everyone around them is shining before they
ignite their light and glow.
but you can’t live by just
borrowing love for an instant or
living with the
ashes of other’s achievements;
you die a fresh death every time you listen to
those voices
that crash down on you like hail until
you’re too numb to move
you’re too over it to try
you’re too cold to ignite
at all.

everyone wants to improve me
with self help videos
and pithy advice
on diet
exercise
mental health
wealth
meditation
10 reasons to own a cat
15 reasons why dog owners
are happier
5 books I must read
before I die (bit dramatic)
10 places to visit before my demise
I don't have time for perfection
envisage some great plan
for my own re-creation
don't really see what's wrong
being shabby
******* up
and writing **** poems

Tears falling from the eyes
Heavy sigh that comes from the mouth
Eyebrows trying to meet each other
Nose shining through the redness
I remind myself,
It's a beautiful phase

All roads seem blocked
All exits taped off!
This and that
always get in the way
I ask and wonder and
I don't feel okay

Am I worthy??
As though
you should answer...
Are you?
Who am I to choose

There are hidden things
I cannot see
Your heart, your soul,
your memories
Your trauma, your fears,
Your meant to be's

That crashed and burned
broke your heart...

Who am I to think
you're too broken to restart?

Can I assume you
have no right to life?
That you're cursed
unloved & shouldn't
been born... right...

When I look in a mirror
I only see me
So I ask myself,
Am I worthy?
And then I answer,
most certainly.

Thinking for myself was one of the first things I did.
I had original thoughts.
It was like *******.
Done alone, in silence. Easy and reliable.
If help was necessary,
There was a pictorial in National Geographic;
Last years Christmas Catalogue,
Or Supergirl,
Flying skyward with one knee cocked.
To think was to develop, to grow into maturity.
Best results were achieved by turning off.
That's hard to do, but doable.
Unplug your podcast ears;
Turn down the Foxbits;
Start your own Blog.
We can think for ourselves
To avoid Jihads, insurrections and revolutions,
Unless,
We think them necessary to clear our heads.