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this is not about myself but about everything everthere is pasta in the fridge
i heat it up, sprinkle cheese on it
i do not eat it, i only stare
i feel disgusting just because
i am human and i destroy
the things i love, the things i don't love
the things i should love but can't bring myself to
i want to smash up this world
and sprinkle its remains in a box titled
"things that were once beautiful, but now are not"
and i will place it next to the box titled
"things that are beautiful, but only when you're not looking"
why is this world so goddamn cold
and why can't i ever feel warm
What Have I Done?Each day I must resist
The urge to tear myself
Apart. Each day I have
Tried so hard not to harm
Myself, out of love for you.
Part of me knows that
I'm doing is for the best,
Yet part of me thinks self-
Harm is the best thing to do.
How is it that I began to heal
When you loved me, and the
Day you said that love was gone,
My will went in reverse.
my first drunk poemwriters write whilst drunk
because every word
fumbled and smisspelled
comes out beautifully
because of the truth it holds
my ear bleeds from constant burns
and my stomach burns from constant bleeds
because beauty is never enough untouched, it seems,
the way anything i put in me is always too much.
i bled and evoked sympathy tonight.
i drank until i needed a body to stand me straight.
my organs writhed like heathens in moonlight ritual
and i let it shake.
i shook to be honest
but i was never honest enough
to admit from where the vibration came.
i shook with fear
and never, ever being adequate
or even happy
but i smiled and let everyone know
that i felt like myself,
and no one ever needed to know
that the only reason i felt so honest
was because i never feel like i can
stand on my own two feet unaided
or stop from trembling
or hold in outbursts of emotion
because if i do,
i know i'll break.
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