from a writer who can’t write, to a friend who doesn’t care

Sometimes I cry so hard from pleading
So sick and tired of all the needless beating
But baby when they knock you down
And out is where you ought to stay…

~*~

i’m never enough.

every time i build

my invincible walls

back up, you shatter

it with a crashing

sledgehammer

and a glint of your

candy fucking teeth

you’re so goddamn eloquent

an angel with a seraphim

choir voice, heavenly

and i’m just a shitty

raconteur, a useless dry

quill pretending to be

a writer, a croaking bullfrog,

a clean cut nothing

vying to be the something

you would notice and

admire back, and maybe

even e n v y . . .

but no, don’t read

the lines in the wrong

perspective, oh no

i adore you so much

darling, that it turns

my heart into chiseled

stone and devours my

lusted guts like acid

in my abandoned brain

for your creative spell

is my personal dante’s hell.

but this jealousy

hurts so fucking good

that i find ways to

compare, contrast

and inflict pain on myself

emotionally, mentally

p h y s i c a l l y

desiring the day you

finally notice my scars

and compliment them

and i’ll feel fucking

revered and glorified

by a cheap side remark

by a person who couldn’t care

to a thing with ugly taint.

am i really so insecure

as to resort to low blows

and pathetic attention whoring

to feel a little better

about my blithe existence?

F U C K. Y E S.

because no matter how

many beautiful words

i bleed in silver and gold

from my pen and

into the blank canvas,

prose, poetry, stories, lies—

i’m just never enough

to make myself worthy

for myself…

no, i’m never fucking enough

for you.

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