On most nights,
I don’t believe I will ever be loved,
Again.
Difficult it is to think as I live my life through a journal and a pen.
It’s a hard-knock life I don’t regret.
After all,
It’s the only thing I know how to do while I flow from a chest,
Inflated by hope while exhaling my sins…
I’m not perfect.
Like every other,
I’ve been bit by a serpent.
Lurking within shadows not many can see through while flirting,
With death coming in so many forms without us never knowing…
But,
For reasons I don’t know of,
“Perfect” is how I was labeled regardless of each flaw I wrote of.
The countless nights I showed up,
Bruised and battered on a platform in front of loads of,
Individuals seeking a thrill I would provide in many tragic poems,
No one had the ability to see how torn up I was inside and out…
It wasn’t until I tore off,
Every bandage from wounds bleeding profusely,
Where my darkness shone brightest.
Pure silence,
As every witness drowned in my blood,
Less vibrant than what I’ve read aloud on a nightly basis…
Whatever…
I’ve healed better ever since I was severed,
From memories of those I thought would love me forever.
Admitting things I never thought I’d speak about,
As I put every drink and joint down,
To sleep with a clearer mind I haven’t had in years…
Whether I’m loved again,
Or not,
I…
Believe I’m alright.
Sometimes it’s more fruitful to be honest while alone,
Instead of being buried by lies.
No longer under the shade of buds on trees I cut to take a longer look at the sky…
m3l0dicverse 
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