i hate poetry.

because it brings

feelings and demons

from deep beneath

and it’s what brought

you close to me.

a passionate discovery.

secretly giving.

selfishly foreseeing

that all these words

in return mean nothing.

all these words that i’m spewing

are emotions renewing

in the cycle of my being.

a mess that’s deceiving

the rest of this world that i’m living.

scribble scribble on this

tanish-yellow paper.

dabble dabble into the depths

of my heart just to make her

believe i can be everything

when really it’s a facade.

a mirage. this deception

it means nothing.

soon the pen will dissolve

the paper will tear and be gone

just another physical material.

give me something real.

something i can handle.

internally. peace. i guess

this writing is my therapy.

i love poetry.