I drink alone,

a lot lately,

and dissect my subconscious.

I find that this is when I am in great company,

and under no obligation to make sense to you

while I lye venerable on paper.

My demons bounce silence off the heart

I wear on my sleeve,

because I will always be mine before anyone else’s,

these days.

I am too much,

and not enough,

for this world that has everything to offer,

but nothing to give.

I am a collection of dismantled “almosts,”

alone in my mind,

admiring how gracefully insane I am.

Nothing I own is original,

and I remember nothing before the writing began,

before the words were born.

I’m addicted to my own self-destruction,

constantly losing all mind and soul

to make sure that I am never accepted,

but left with something always to write.

I know that when I am writing

I am doing the one thing that I was born to do,

and nothing less.

My words will own the world one day,

or nothing at all.

There are worse things than being alone,

but this world does not understand

that solitude is sometimes one of the most beautiful things on earth.

And I see threw those who seek constant crowds and validation;

those that are nothing without them,


So many afraid of being one.

But what are they afraid of?

Their own reflections?


I have learned that most are just cowards

hoarding bottles of their own emotions

they keep hidden in a closet,

and this is the worst luck any human can ever have,

ashamed to be honest,

afraid to feel,

embarrassed to be real.


I have found that some of my grandest revelations

have come from complete isolation,

because there is NO ONE

that I want to know better

than I know myself;

so I have spent my entire life studying me,

until I became immortal in every story,

and every poem,

that I have ever written.

I have drained myself by feeling far too much,

and never quite enough at the same time.

I am strangefully beautiful, and rare,

hopelessly and romantically in love

with everything this world has to offer.

I’ve never allowed myself to be taken,

or owned by another,

because I refuse to bow down to love,

because “love,”

to me,

has always been a deadly disease.