Pen in hand
I struggle to create
greatness
Because all my pieces
seem to be dead ends
Worthless orgies of words
on a page
There is no doubt that some
find meaning in my
unnatural occurrences that
are a result of my
expansive insanity
I dare say that
A following I have grown
It still remains a mystery to me
That people still read my works and
call it good
Maybe they are crazy
Or misunderstood
Nevertheless
I will give the people what they desire
Pixies and unicorns
Witches on fire
Rambunctious preteens
Things heard and not seen
I give you me!
A teen about to take on 20
I give you me!
Armed with the knowledge
that I and she were never
meant to be
I hope that my words cause vibrations
Pushing you out of your darkness
And into the light
Because my pieces mean nothing
If you are not alright
YOU ARE READING
Melancholy Dreams
PoetryMy poetry is an extension of myself. Every time I write, I stain the page with portions of my thoughts and emotions. Pieces of my former self lie in the stanzas. What is left is the current version of myself. This is my story, more or less.
