No One Likes You

No one likes you.
Emotional, irrational, sensitive,
You are a butterfly 
When the rest of the world is a strong gust of wind,
Ready to break your wings at any moment of weakness. 

No one likes you.
Your childish charms and quirks don’t work anymore,
This is the real world now and you have been left behind —
A lone leaf in this world of bricks and stones and marbles.

No one likes you.
You think they’d care but no– you are living in a fictional world
Where people have time for your follies and paroxysms, no —
They just don’t notice those now, they just don’t notice those now.

No one likes you.
See this is why you lie in bed, alone, at this hour,
When entwined hearts would whisper their devotions, you listen to the sound of the quiet street outside,
And you wonder things you’ve always pushed to the back of your mind.

No one likes you.
You hurt yourself with these words and thoughts and yet you continue writing,
Afraid to realize that you may be worthless if it weren’t for these poems you write, 
Words you’re too scared to say that you’d rather write it down in the hopes that the recipient would one day read it,
You pause and wonder, but still, you write.

No one likes you.
You do not even like yourself, you hate yourself, you wish you could stop but you couldn’t. 
You whisper to yourself, “You’re worthless,”  because you’re sad,
And you’re scared that you’re starting to believe it.

No one likes you.
It’s an easy excuse for when you’ve isolated yourself and you’ve been hurt, you’re afraid 
And you do not know how to say, “Hey, this is me. I am miserable and I hate it, but I have been doing so well no one would believe me.”

No one likes you.
This is a lie you say when it is convenient, 
To blame it on others when you know you’re just lonely and are partly to blame.
A scapegoat for when you do not know how to ask for what you need, 

“No one likes you.” 



My toes curled under the sheets,
Arms shivering,
I am cold.

I see darkness where others see light,
What have I been doing wrong,
I am cold.

It is a descent,
Slow and invisible,
I am cold.

I know not why,
Just that it is,
I am cold.


Inexplicably sad
Undeniably mad
Stare and breathe, stare and breathe
Never close to what I need

Inexplicably sad
Don’t ask why
Undeniably mad
Couldn’t tell anyone why

Inexplicably sad
Couldn’t take it easily
Undeniably mad
I’m not ready

Inexplicably sad
Everything hanging on a balance
Undeniably mad
Stare and breathe, stop the tears

Inexplicably sad
Undeniably mad
Stare and breathe, stare and breathe.

Me Importa

My god, I actually care.

But I cannot,
I must not,
Because I don’t even understand myself–
I am dead, I have nowhere to go,
I am stuck in a leisurely pace,
I have nowhere to go.

But I–
I don’t know,
I’m not supposed to say this,
Not allowed to feel this.

But god, I do care,
I do care about you.

But I cannot,
I must not,
Because I am nothing—
And you have so much to go,
So far to go.

And I am a dead weight.
With no plans, no dreams, no future,
Just a lurker in the present.

My god, I do care,
But I can’t.

It pains,
To want but cannot,
A self-imposed rule, I should say,
But a rule nonetheless.

To hurt no one
By being unhappy.

But my god,
Do I care.


Who would’ve thought love could be a white-hot pain in the chest
A pit in the stomach
And choking back tears.

The pounding won’t stop
The beast in my heart
Growling louder, heavier.
And it lurches
As tears flow slowly

And there’s something in my throat.

The fire, it’s back
And it clutches my fragile heart,
It hurts.

And my hands are numb
My toes are cold.

Everything’s dead
But the fire in my heart
Soon to consume me.

It’s A Certain Sort of Sadness

It’s a certain sort of sadness
That wells up inside–
Here now; gone tomorrow,
And here again unannounced.

It’s a certain sort of sadness
That all I could do is stare–
Wonder why, and how,
Is there something I found wanting?

It’s a certain sort of sadness
That fills my palm with pain of loss–
A stab to the heart and numbness down my feet,
Will I ever get used to it?

It’s a certain sort of sadness
That I’ll never quite get fond of–
Not the kind that makes me seek solitude,
Recourse or rest.

It’s a certain sort of sadness
That sends chills down my arms–
A coldness in my core,
A flame burning in my heart.

It’s a certain sort of sadness
That fills me with nothingness–
Not choler, or ire,
Not melancholy, or despait.

It’s a certain sort of sadness.