How Inhuman Of Me,

you keep burning me.

Slowly. But surely.

I am not ugly.

I am just. not pretty enough.

My thoughts,

they terrify me.

something snapped between us today.

I was so sure that you will be there.

But when I needed you so desperately . You were gone.

When I was falling apart , you turned your back on me.

Of course , it's not your fucking fault.

I expected you to be there. I don't know . I don't know if I have ever failed to be there for you. But it hurts. Alot. You know, I was ready. I was finally all ready to let you in. Fully. To tell you that past. To let you know all that we can do together. To finally have found the right one. But I guess I was getting ahead.

Just like that, I am alone.

how my life should be.

you're not

alone.

i too,

stay up at night,

wondering -

that brief

moment

of isolation

helps you

find your peace.

"the darkest nights."

d.b.a

for a.

NEVER let men be masculine. hold the line soldiers

Identity

Who am I, if not a poet? What am I, if not a writer? What is my existence, And what is my purpose?

How do I relieve myself of these emotions, If not by bleeding myself on paper? How do I express myself to the world, If not by baring myself for everyone to see? What is my comfort, if not being vulnerable with words? Where do I go, if not to pen and paper? To whom do I share my happiness, sadness, My sorrows, and guilt? Where do I let out my anger, Before it turns me cold and sharp? Where do I pour out the storm, Before it drowns me? Tell me, what do I do, If not write?

Who am I, if not a poet? What am I, if not a writer? What is my existence, And what is my purpose?

©Pen_Pain_Poetry

pulling up to the function scared and puffed up