My pain has always been 
prettier on paper...  

The way my tears land  
and make the ink bleed 
through the faded blue lines... 

The way my frustration 
smears the page into blurs of 
illegible letters and marbled designs... 

The way my notebook's 
corners are curled during 
the hours of countless sighs... 

And the way my fingers 
twist my misery...  

So that it's prettier 
than what's inside.   


Like unwanted party guests 
the thoughts arrive, 
casually striding in together 
to fuck with my mind. 

They're compulsive, intrusive, 
and highly erratic, 
depressive, manipulative, 
and obscenely manic. 

They've had no invite 
or welcoming at all, 
yet they play in my head 
like a reckless free-for-all. 

They'll take what they can 
until they've had enough, 
while I watch from the corner 
sitting silently in disgust. 

For I can't get them out 
or exonerate their presence, 
so patiently I just wait 
for their eventual evanescence.