who cares

I Know.

i see you struggling to get by...

you keep fighting to keep up...

trying to not let many know of these battles

that take place deep inside...

i try to just let you be,

because i know that you feel ashamed of the confusion

society knows of your ever lasting feminine ways...

but deep inside you fight this need to be the perfect wife.

you see his mistakes and you console him...

you hear his disappointment with you and you feel shame...

to the outside your outspoken, smart, beautiful, confident, full of life, no one can stop you...

but i see your doubt,

you doubt every word, you question your beauty, you struggle to keep up...

you hate me because i know you know .... i know...


what people think is life in your eyes...i see the almost tears


why keep up with this charade?

they would understand,

your family wouldn't judge you...

who cares what society says...

they all make mistakes...

point me the perfect asshole ... i'll show you their shit.




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I am me

Do I fear the sadness
And all the regrets
And the things I should have recognized
That I’m not willing to accept?
Maybe I’ll break
An enlightening snap…

I’ll be honest with my self
It won’t happen like that.
See, I reason with myself.
Yet I’m still not who I am
I drown denial with apathy
-imagine reality- Damn

With that, I sing
And I say
I am me
I am free
And I believe it is true
Till I type that last key y

Author's Notes/Comments: 

horrible name, sounds like a terrible poem. I stayed up later than i wanted to, that's not really an excuse.

" Whatever "

The pool is almost empty,
It feels as if I've done it all,
Scores of lines of rhyming words,
Poetry large and small,

Self loathing and depression,
Look at my punished soul,
"You dont understand how I feel",
Is getting kind of old,

I have penned dedications,
A sad story of the natives,
Who undoubtably have been screwed,
No excuses of why you couldnt make it,

I have written about addictions,
Syringes and tourniquets of rubber,
But havent we all been addicted,
To one thing or another?

I have written about atrocities,
Like Europe's bubonic plague,
Mother nature does what she wants,
Too many people anyways,

What it is I'm trying to say,
I really do not know,
Maybe I have no more to say,
Nothing left to show,

Should my pen go in the drawer,
And finally call it quits,
Maybe writers block or something else,
For now I'm saying "fuck it",

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