the womb never felt so dry and cold.

can't help but feel like i was,

a miscarriage that was born.

but don't you worry, i don't need you,

i'm my mother of my soul,

and when i count to ten,

the sheep make sure that i can let go.

and hate grows hate in all ways,

in all ways that i hate.

what if all these steps

lead to inevitable fate?

and so i lead the way through,

just like i do.

“suffering in some fuels the joy of others”

because seething teeth and wilted confidence

allows the peach blossoms to bloom in the springtime

and joyous choirs to sing of their deathbed

with words graced by the cloudy heavens.

and i count the rotten apples

left to their inevitable fate

of falling and decomposing

onto the very earth that has brought them here.

i can’t help but wonder

what good has the pain in others

brought to this world?

and what has an apple’s fate

done for the sake of humanity?

your words caressed

the redness of my cheeks

wiping away

the struggle of human

with a cotton napkin made of compassion.

yet i have to acknowledge

the faux creation of your speech

creates false comfort

for the ignorant

and betrayal

for the knowing.

and at the end of the day

your existence is fondest

to the roaring crowd

who beg and cry

for you to speak the words they want to hear.

oh the sweet desire

to acquire such love

that seems more than skinny.

a solid query as to why

the brain vandalizes

the endearing thought

of such a thing?

yet your enigmatic smile

with your stoic composure

adds to the question i ask,

“who really are you?”

but i seem like

nothing but a hypocrite

to ask such a question

i can’t answer for

myself

so kill two birds with one stone

with this deepened love,

in order to answer our invading thoughts

and to be at peace with ourselves.