A Friend...if you call it that.

So uncertain she is, conditioning her pride with the shards of her own words.

So insecure she is, begging for compliance amongst her peers and others.

Trying to be mysterious and strong, but soaking through is blood of weakness.

Out of element, no surprises she brings when admitting her constant jealously.

All she does is fuse to organisms she wants to gain, I pity her self doubt in only one way; understatements.

What does she really want? Praise for the wonder she thinks she displays.

Her revolving sorrow can be resolved by only one thing, her own scene.

M

This whole tiring show is seductively tragic.

A story tale with an ending, yet an empty conclusion.

What a bitter love, one that confuses every thought I have ever had.

It brings me to tears to imagine that this is a constant that I will always try and survive.

I want to explode, to implode all the excitement and doubt that exists inside of me.

To start again with the ninth struggle that I enclose, someday hoping for a satisfying result.

Need is the devil that I actively encourage.

Entertaining all my actions, or lack there of.

We all crave that instant depth, but do everything in our power to swim away.

Existing only long enough to shadow against the walls before you close your eyes.

Such an annoyance, he's the master of her alternative universe.

I slowly died with his words, leaving me as innocent and naive as a child.

This fantasy is driven by lust; an inconsistent reality.

So unavailable, yet there for the last call convenience.

We all relate to each other's stories of stale longings and drawn out conversations.

Make me love the feeling of playing for me.

While I inhale my own poison and feel it structure my existence, I contain myself in my personal prison.

A place where loneliness is a common occurrence.

An area where time slowly slips through the leaking cracks.

A space where tears are my drinking water.

A time where there are no regrets.

A life of addictions that crave to be fed. 

It swells every time we think too long, creeping up inside until it starts to strangle.

Wrapping it's fingers around my lungs and crushing them with a touch

Too much to carry; it's weighing and also is bearing.

It taps my shoulder as it sneaks around my body not quite long enough to care.

This word so oblivious, too stagnant to stand.

What we see and what we think are two different illusions

One big dream where each and every person creates their own hell

A hell that already exists, alive and breathing

If only one could see and touch another's reality would these fires be put out

But, would we be experiencing their fantasy?

It streams through my body to accept the differences and the awkwardness of each being.