So much of my thought

is invested in you.

I must smile for your smile

to keep existing in purest forms.

You seem fine and comfortable,

but somewhere along

this performance, this living of mine,

I’ve forgotten to smile for myself.

I’m not happy. These three words sweep up the scattered synopsis of my life lived so far. Like, am I just supposed to wake up one morning and realize that I’m happy-happy-joy-joy? Do I smile daily, in hopes that my perspectives will change dramatically? That I will feel overwhelmed with goosebumps stinging every inch of my arms, legs, my metaphorically-induced heart, and this morbid mind? 

Just.. how do I bring myself in the presence of genuine happiness, when I’m such an emotional mess? When guilt and self-loathe have stitched themselves onto my lips, how do I go about breaking the constant horizontal? A curve or two or three or endless amounts of it wouldn’t be such a terrible thing. Hmm.

I’m stuck in this situation,
My lips move incessantly.
There are so many poems,
So many prose pieces,
So many elegiac ramblings
Of heart’s condition
That I have lost count;
Instead, I begin calculating
The scraps of burnished dots
Placed in the concave womb.
 
The Mother seems to sway
Me towards the acceptance
Of truth I cannot accept,
For that sweet soul wrote
Its language onto my blank
Face, raw sighs, the quaking
Of my once-cold fingers.
How is it possible, then,
To release oneself from
This euphoric presence?
 
Maybe the future shall
Soundly succumb to tears
Eye had composed in an
Inebriation of the moment
I failed to look him in his eyes;
It was an unexpected charm
That induced a soulful,
Yet a numbing glissando of
Awareness I only dreamt
Of stumbling upon one day.
 
There existed not a single
Doubt in my cranium nor
In the ether of grey-blue,
That I was smiling willingly.
It was a procession of an
Absolute permeation of
Pangs inside my chest;
The feeling jammed itself
So sensually that I felt no
Discomfort from this zeal.
 
Only amidst the collapse
Of my quiet pleasures
Am I able to expose myself
To the visceral notion of:
I could love you for the
Remainder of life in me;
Will that suffice for two?
In my frailest moments,
I was, am, able to simply be
Everything because of you.
 
 
 

I rarely feel lovely,
For when I form an
Eye contact with
Mirror, there is
Always hesitancy
Percolating within
My brash skin.
 
My lips seem so
Drier than usual,
And no matter
How much I feel,
It never moistens
Into an adoration;
I whimper in smiles.
 
What to say of my
Nose so elongated,
For the shade of skin
Bathed in blackheads
Will always hide me.
My soul can’t sniff
Out its own aroma.

I have some things written
On my troubled wrist:
 
Stresses of bagging a job.
Worries of going to school.
Fears of constant failure.
 
There are many more
To come and scar deeply.
 
My wrist hurts.
 

She’s so lucky, you know?
To have you to hold her,
To gaze at her with all
The love I wish was mine.
 
There is no bitterness
Brewing inside of me;
I spew out only the
Sweetest of intentions.
 
Here’s an honest account
Of the state of my heart:
It shatters one minute,
And then chortles the next.
 
The nights are stranger
Than the day-lit hours—
I’ve spent it so blithely
Swamped in effervescence.
 
Even in this ironic mess,
I find a soulful moment
To caress the peace’s body
Bathing in restless beats.
 
There is only something
Plainly alluring about this
Ambiance settling into
Me, as I welcome agony.
 
Now my mind is shifting
From one desire to the next,
A menacing pendulum stirs
At the fingertips of heart.
 
What am I wanting?
What did I want then?
Will I want it years later?
No response echoes yet…

My beloved, yellow mechanical pencil is twisted, and I’m not sure whether to be amused or be genuinely upset. Before you make any assumptions, no, this isn’t going to be a metaphorical piece based on the way I perceive my existence to be (although, that would make more sense, and you wouldn’t be questioning my sanity the second you read the first sentence). My pencil really is physically twisted. It has been left untouched for several months now, just lolling inside a compartment of my art box. I excitedly unlatch the cover and find it and my orange pencil in a twisted union. Anyhow, I took it out and pressed on the back end of it to see if it would even work. It works just fine. The lead inside of it seems to not care of the deformity of its shelter… so why should I? (sighs) 

Drawing pencil, I’ve missed you dearly. I will use you, abuse you (in an appropriate manner, of course), and I will try not to let your physical appearance become a barrier between our years’ worth of artistic companionship. I love you so.