The last poem i wrote was about what I thought was love.
However, it was far from it. It was far from previously envisioned memories of a meeting long ago. Neither was it the false pretense of the grab for something that I couldn’t quite have. Taking a step back from this now I realize that it was nothing short of a masochistic infatuation. One that I created based on the premise that I would have an excuse to fall back on when the lightest parts of my imagination mangled in itself to become nothing short of a terrifying monster. The monster that would soak up my assumptions of myself and the world, and paw and toy with them as I was afraid to ever look in it’s direction. I apologize to you then, as it seems everything that happened was quite unnecessary and quite frankly was all on me. All you offered was the start of a genuine high school experience, the smile to assure one that the future is not at fault. Yet I took it and manipulated the image of you into a facet of a collections I’ve cried when I looked at the mirror and saw nothing but mistake after mistake. Two whole years I managed to continue this facade. It was a cathedral where I could unknowingly go in and believe that falling to my knees would convince you and I that I was of worth. I can say of now that I still become crippled at times and fight to release into the purest air, but it is not for you. It is for I. Because I can grow empires and I am capable of setting fire to the bark that holds a false sense of security on me. The world is nothing perplexing. It is hopelessly drab and gray. I feel it every cloudy morning when the chill touches my cheeks and reflects the attributes of myself and society. I see it when I look down at the black in my coffee and I aimlessly continue to pour creamer in it, hoping somewhat to convince myself that I can continue the day. It’s in the quiet fog that trickles down into my thoughts, and leaves me pale. Yet I am able to continue and keep going forward. Because love is not suppose to be a vessel for self-acceptance. It is the faint reminisce of light at the end of the stone cold tunnel. And as of now, I believe that I have pointed myself in the right direction.