My own immaturity has become my self-made shell.
Unbreakable by my own design, a self-created hell.
I remember being so full of love and joy,
There wasn't a day I didn't have a girl on my arm.
Before my heart got broken I really knew how to charm.
It started when friends began leaving.
I thought "what's one friend or two? I'll make plenty more."
Of course then I picked up my own vice and caught myself in a rat trap.
After I fell in love with a whore.
My poems used to not rhyme;
They used to be more ambitious and more ambiguous.
Now some lines fall flat and don't flow.
And others like a river just seem to go.
The syllables all seemed to match up, now I just write non-stop.
I don't care about time and I don't care about rhyme.
I just pick up my pen and pick at my brain I fall asleep writing, and the next day I pick up my pen again.
I'm Philophobic by creation, and I'm filled with such frustration.
But I can't let my walls down not for a minute.
I'm scared to death of love and terrified I might fall in it.
YOU ARE READING
I try to look up to the stars when I feel lost, and I am very lost
ŞiirA collection of mostly sad poems Most of these are raw and unrefined One take or they don't make the grade Usually birthed after 2am
