The Delusional Man

You, you tear me up,

surrounded by my peers,

distractions should be enough.

They're lacking in interest,

you, you're captivating.

It's intoxicated nights,

you're the only thought,

the only one on my mind.

I long to reach out,

say the feelings embedded,

buried and hidden in my soul.

I'm terrified.

Unpredictable you frighten me,

excite and enlighten me.

A paradox of the harshest kind,

fucks my heart, fucks my mind.

I'm afraid of what I feel,

it's fragile, a delicate balance.

You're afraid too, and I'm afraid of you.

Paranoia that this isn't meant to be,

still, nothing is set in stone,

no one knows with who you should grow.

There is no perfect match,

It's the element of willingness,

commitment, trust and faith.

I believe,

this is what I wish for.

You are the future I desire.

I long to express this longing,

crying out in my heart.

I wish to yell to the world,

yet I'm afraid it would drive you away.

So I write to this book, instead of to you.

At three in the morning I cry to the moon,

I cry to the stars, and cry to the sky,

anything to keep me from contacting you.

Liquid courage exemplifies my desires,

I cannot let them take control.

I write, I write, and that is all

in prevention, so I never let you know,

and tell you that you tear me up.

She said that something I wrote made her cry,

she said it was just so beautiful and sad.

“Which one,” I asked?

She said the title; it wasn’t mine.

Someone else moved her soul to tears, not me.

I am disappointed of course;

however, I understand.

I am not a beautiful writer, just sad,

my work is forced, raw

nothing is pretty, nothing moving,

it represents me.

My words flow from a different place,

arise from a chamber that is forsaken,

an empty room where my words echo,

bouncing off of concrete walls.

They never escape to impact lives,

if brought to the light, they collapse.

They find the first piece of paper and go there to die.

My notebook a graveyard,

each poem a headstone,

with words to remember the ideas that have died.

My writing isn’t a breath,

there is nothing prolific,

it is written, read and then forgotten.

If someone ever happens to cry, it will be only one tear.

From a place of regret and sorrow,

sorrow that these words were never profound.

Disappointments of the ideas that were never achieved;

just like me.

The Dead Forest