The ink dries on the paper as though desperate,

For it's liquid form

to soak into something


You see, I,

have been using my body as a canvas,

Believing I could eclipse the pain

by scrawling

All the hate filled words

running through my mind,

Onto the very flesh I despise

The words,

Razor sharp in their brutality,

A haze of tarnished humanity,

Spill from my fingertips,

As the pen peels back the paleness of my skin,

Revealing the truth of the ugly words within,

You see I, am a sin.

Not a saint by any means,

Black intent bursting at the seams,

I am a mess of contradictions.

This poem,

Knows it's a godawful lens,

Of the way I try desperately to pretend,

That I am okay,


at ease,

When in reality,

I am nothing but the mistakes,

I carelessly remake,

Over and over again,

Their cruel repetition

A bizarre trend,

A pattern I can't seem to shake,

Nor break.


Here I go again.

I'm sorry,

I know I'm too much.

I'm too quiet, too stupid,

Am I being too loud?

I'm a freak, liar, whore,

Bitch, failure, and


This poem,

Knows its far

Too pretentious to be perfect,

And I know I'm too sensitive,

I need to stop, slow down,


Am I embarrassing myself yet?

The ink black words

cover me like a coat,

A warm blanket of misery,

I hide, and contain myself in,

I am content in this camouflage

This illusion of sanity,

But like the rest of me,

I am faded, a pretender of clarity.

This poem knows it's a god awful way,

Of begging someone to notice

That I am not okay.

So, as the words dry on

My flesh,

I'll admit,

I'll confess,

that I feel alone

In this unholy mess.