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[crappy-unpoetic-words]

I think i’m in love with the idea of falling in love.

I fall for my friends in a way i don’t see in movies. I lack the ability to love and let myself be loved, at least in a way thats true.

I desire a grand romance yet i’m not sure i’m capable of it.

I fantasise of the magic that sparks with a romance, but it’s never felt right. The butterflies in my stomach match the ones of fear, not romantic love.

I lust to genuinely fall in love…

[crappy-unpoetic-words]

Don’t force me to be tricked by your beautiful lies. I can’t be helped, you cannot try.

Throw me out for i am not what you think. I’m not a perfect meal, topped with a cherry and whipped cream. I am a rotting peice of meat, you must discard me. For i’ve deceived you enough by paining myself to appear fresh and good.

I am not, and will never. Be good.

[crappy-unpoetic-words]

Please take this as a compliment as u read a jagged poetic mess of unlinked thoughts:

Sometimes friendships remind me of paints, except u can’t see how big the jar they’re in is. You’ll find these jars all over your life, some bigger than others, some more a favourable colour and some will tear your canvas.

The paint on the brush will fade on the canvas, but that doesn’t mean the jar is empty.

One of my jars i’ve only discovered this year. The paint is quite favourable, its smooth and it so easily sits on my canvas and glides along it with my brush.

Another, is grainier and i’ve had for a few years. It doesn’t glide along as easily as others, but it impacts the canvas so perfectly. Sure it’s scratched the canvas, but it’s also filled in holes my own paint punctured in. It holds more meaning when i dip my brush into it.

I must admit. Sometimes i can’t see the point in beating my own heart nor helping another’s beat. And sometimes, an intertwined piece of my soul that isn’t mine causes that. But oh, oh my how much more that intertwined part connected to me has beaten my heart when i’ve wanted to end it’s movement.

..

i have many ugly faces. Most i wish to purge and never let see the sunlight nor b seen by others. But they show themselves, and i’m powerless to stop them… But with you, i feel, i don’t mind letting u see a few more than others will ever. I would feel less burdened if i was forced to show someone the worse face i have to offer, was you..

(Written for a very slay fren <3)

[crappy-unpoetic-words]

Allow me to reach inside and rip out my intestines. I lack a use for them nowadays. Remove my arm from its socket. Make me completely flat at each and every side I own of myself. Stretch my skin till it loses all elastic properties, let it hide the curves I harbour. Don’t let me tear, keep me smooth and disfigured. Make me a product of your own nightmares. Mould me to your liking. I have no purpose other than that.

Keep myself with a mask of you. Show me pain, as it’s the only feeling I don’t lack. Make it a game for your own enjoyment. I am a product not yet on shelves for I shouldn’t be bought.

Tell me lies full of beauty and enchantment, make me live a life of service and obliviousness.

Do what you want as long as you make me think its normal and what I was made to do. Give me purpose, make me hurt to show I’m human. Make me think I can swoon, make me think I’m capable of helping, make me a god then destroy me. Scream at me when I fail till my ears are filled with red.

Show me I deserve nothing but the worst. Show me how to help. Show me how to hurt. Make me an item of glory and admiration, but of course I don’t deserve that.

Make me guilty for every breath I take but convince me I cannot die or else I’d disappoint you. Force me to believe my purpose is to serve your every need.

Make me the perfect fool I already think I am.

[crappy-unpoetic-words]

I am your clay to mould.

Shave away my hips, tear off my chest, rip apart my head and fingers. Take those torn away parts, remould them onto me in a way that suits you most.

Make me flat, make me favourable and in your image.

Then when you’re happy with my base. Burn me.

Burn me until i can no longer change my form, until i am forever stuck as what you ever so generously made me.

And if you’re not pleased at the end, if i’m not perfect in each and every way.

Take the very loving hands you used to mould me, and start shattering. Shatter me until the stardust of a collided plant appears whole.

When i’m in pieces once again, remould me.

Again, and again and again and again and again. Carve me to perfection. Carve me to beauty. Carve me to love. Carve me even after your tools splinter. Carve me whilst your hands bleed. Carve me to your desire. Carve me, carve me, carve me, carve me, carve me, carve me, carve me, carve me.

Once it’s over. Once your fingerprints are all over me. Once i’m finally good enough to display.

Place my, now glorious, corpse on a shelf for all to see how great you truly are.

[crappy-unpoetic-words]

My writing is jagged. It is not smooth, not perfect, not connected and it’s inconsistently bland. My writing is unapologetically apologising for not meeting your standards. My writing is ugly and personal, unfortunately. And even more unfortunately, my writing is mine.

[crappy-unpoetic-words]

I want to write something enchanting. Something that resembles a magical forest you find in fairy-tales for children. But when I try, it feels like throwing paint at a canvas, wishing for it move on its own to create something worthwhile. All I can now do is hope that the words I speak will splatter like blood and resemble something half as beautiful as you.

You’re hauntingly beautiful, I cant help but stare. My eyes feel the need to analyse each and every atom that makes you up.