No more poems, thank you;
I think that I'm done.
My notebook's half empty,
And apathy's won.

Please turn off the music;
My songs are all sung.
I think the night's over,
Although it's still young.

No more words, I beg you;
Just slice off my tongue!
They're just wasted air,
From a withering lung.

I've no more left to say;
Time to blot out the sun.
My notebook's half empty,
And apathy's won.

I’ve never received a flower
Or even a rose
But I’m a guy
So it’s acceptable I suppose
No kisses
Or sweets
No treats
That signifies ones feelings for me
No token of ones love
But I have gotten
Disappointment
Watered with hate
Planted in betrayal
Fertilized with lies
And maintained by fakes
Roses are Red
But my roses are dead
And crumble beneath my feet

Through haunting steps was I lured here
By a melody faint but clear
To this glen where fancy drifted
By the rays my sight was gifted
Peering through a portal twixt
Fae and mortal realm are mixed
With heavy eyelids did I trace
Beyond a doorway fairy laced
A land that to a sleeper seeming
Would only appear to one who's dreaming
So with a nodding head did I
Accept an invitation devised
To set aside these earthly ways
And wonts belonging to the day
For a realm where sprites aplenty
Weave a spell soaked litany
They prance and dance for my surprise
To these misty mortal eyes
And caper on until a time
For fairy bells to warning chime
The dawning of lights soon arrival
To Herald the end of dreams survival
Now all the fae folk gathered hence
Did ask a further moment whence
To linger this side of the gate
And escape their morning fate
They beckon to this dreamers eyes
And plead that for one moment more
Deny the truth which soundless lies
Beyond the bounds of dreamings door

I'm pretty sure everything I say
is just a quiet cry for help.
I express my joy, a smile on my face—
but if you read between the lines,
you'll see me melt.

I mask my pity in beautiful words,
my word *****—
strung into sonnets,
and called art.

I beg them to read,
to open their eyes and see,

to hear at my pleas—
look at me, and weep.

But I'm a pathetic poet,
I yearn to be understood.
Yet, they only read my work,
and call it good.