drowning in my emotions, with the scribble of a pen.
My best is worst overall
but I have to take it anyways,
and my short days are still long
but I have to wake up anyways.
I inhale and exhale even when
I do not want to make the effort,
and if someone believes that
I still have a purpose after
I feel the lethargy close in,
then so be it
but I will take a back seat
to this thing we call ‘life’
and hope the person driving
knows what the hell is going on
because I haven’t the slightest idea.
We are driving in the wrong direction
or at least that is what I am told,
and I do not feel the urge to
shout that we are headed toward
disaster and cannot turn around.
I look at you and cannot catch my breath.
The moonlight strikes your face
in such a way that no one could seem
as beautiful as you in this moment.
My hands ache for your skin,
just to prove that you are real
and not a figment of my ideal imaginations.
Your eyes mirror depths to which
I do not know how to dive
but the sight of you in front of me
is enough to make me try,
even if it kills me in the end.
I would die happier after a moment
of exposure to your affections
than after a lifetime without it
but you would not look at me
in the way I see you now,
because your beauty is of the
rarest kind and I am quite
unlovely under the night sky.
I do not know how to be missed,
only know the steps it takes to
make someone leave.
My grenade of a heart detonates
and scatters every trace of what
I could never hold onto,
leaving holes where there used
to be carvings of emotions
from people who had scars on their minds
and knives in their hands.
I wince every time my veins pump
the sludge my blood has turned into,
ready to burst and chase away the rest
of whom I can never bring close enough.
I do not have the number of fingers it would take
to count the lives I have demolished,
or how many sleepless nights have plagued me
with bags under my eyes and
a hollowness that weighs more than any bomb.