I've lost it.
I'm tired of being the imperfect daughter.
I'm tired.
I'm sorry I can't be her.
I hate that I'm not smart like her.
That I'm not perfect like her.
But I hate that I don't have your more.
You have driven me to this point.
With all your insults.

I don't remember when the **** my poetry became about pleasing people or getting votes or views.
I don't remember when my writings were only created to be approved by a friend.
I don't know when things became about success or money.
I don't know why it turned into pleasing a lover.
But as soon as it did become about those things, I lost my spark, and suddenly writing was a chore.
I'm done with burning in my small spotlight with nothing flowing on paper,
I just want to be free.
It's time I get back to writing the way I used to.
For my emotion. For my passions. For myself.

you would think mothers
supposed to be good and caring
parents,
and i would like to think
that you were an evil monster
that always put me down
and never believe i could
do anything,
well, congratulations,
mom,
you were right and you
won that battle against me,
the one that you fought
for so many years.

thank you, mom,
your assumptions,
-like always- were correct,
and you made me the
monster that i am today.

*i wouldn't want to
be anything else,

love ruins things
it leaves us all destitute
and hungry for something else
greater than ourselves

it all ends
it all breaks
we all give up

what's the point of letting someone
who will eventually leave
see your bare soul?

i don't know i don't know i don't know

i just felt like i didn't belong

it just didn't feel right
and i didn't feel secure

his heart was made of broken eggshells
and i got tired of tiptoeing in his presence

i knew it was bound to break

"it's just love," he said

and that's exactly the reason why i left.