AClichePoemUsingTheStarsAndShit

Promise me you won’t think any less of me for what I’m about to say.
For all of my transparent attempts at getting closer to you through past and recent events, but in my defense…I don’t think I had a choice in the matter.
While I’m probably nothing amidst your first, your exes, your future boyfriends, and the one man you might potentially marry…I’m not sorry. Not sorry for being one of the many bridges you crossed and burned to go from your past to your future.
Even if our time was wasted, may it be days, weeks, months, or years…I do not regret it in the least.

Because you see, I could say with every fibre of my being that no matter how brief…you were my sunshine. But way past cliche metaphors, you're closer to stars and supernovas.
The way your smile reflects prisms of light and double rainbows, even sometimes starting to look like a triple rainbow…
Now the night never gets too dark and lonely anymore...like it used to.
The warmth you emit, tingles skin on fingertips leaving palms sweaty and electricity tap dancing on nerve endings.
It reminds me... the best parts what it feels like to be human.
Staring into the depths of the brown in the stroma in your iris, even past closed eyelids, is as close to infinity as I’ll ever get…yet I don’t mind in the slightest.
From the twinkle in your eyes resembling far gone constellations, to your pale complexion reminiscent of the moon. I will fight through black holes for you who are beyond ethereal, beyond celestial…taking meteor showers in the morning and wearing the rings of Saturn as jewelry during dinner in the evening.
They say the eyes are the window to one’s soul, and in yours I see the cosmos.
Reaching for signals like orbiting satellites, orbiting your curves like axis and gravitational pulls. You pull me in closer…I’m attracted to you like polar opposites of north and south while I align planets through phrases by word of mouth.
No more wishing that airplanes were shooting stars like annoying pop musicians, because everything I ever wanted is right next to me. Everything in your heavenly body that tiptoes the fine line between where the earth and the heavens meet.

Until the day we refuse to recognize what once was, like Pluto as a planet…I’m not sorry. Not sorry for being one of the many bridges you crossed and burned to go from your past to your future. Even if our time was wasted, may it be days, weeks, months, or years…I do not regret it in the least. Because in my mind, what we have will stretch til infinity…and beyond.

FelixFelicis.

They say love is like magic…if that’s the case, then heartbreak is a curse... and I guess I’d be the Boy Who Lived. Living in a cupboard under the stairs seeking your attention…or maybe even some affection just as long as it was coming from your direction.

‘Cos every second I spend without you is much worse than the Cruciatus, now for the next 2 minutes I’ll be completely honest. I always thought we were destined, like Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger…that we shared the deepest connection like cores shared between wands and phoenix feathers. Trying to deduce a way, magical or not that we could be closer. And if I had to describe how you make me feel…wingardium leviosa. Or maybe a dose of Felix Felicis. Because it must be illegal to feel this good from something you don’t have. When I see you…you’ve got me stupefied, jinxed into silence with jelly legs. Stuck in place like petrificus totalus and basilisk glares. In an instant, I have no fear of harm. Think of your smile…then Patronus charm. So I’m standing here, hoping I could tell you that the back of your head is RIDDIKULUS, like banishing monsters in closets…but I’m confunded. Worse than confused, ‘cos you’re sweeter than Honeydukes and I want to Time Turner every moment I ever spent with you.

I’m trying to alohamora the lock to your heart, wishing I could reducto the walls you’ve built around it so that the chase would be over like Seekers in Quidditch games. If it was ever broken…then reparo. If that doesn’t work, then spellotape and protego. Protect it with vigilance like goblins in Gringotts, constantly trying to get to know you better through your SIM card. Until the day that you let me into your Chamber of Secrets…and I could be the diary that replies back at the times you’re the weakest. For you, I would swim to the deepest depths of the darkest lake, past merfolk and grindylows. Fight past mythical creatures and fire breathing dragons with no championship to be aiming for. You are my Triwizard Champion, but with no one else in contention. So I feel obligated to mention…

You have me effectively disarmed and I’m under your spell…that’s clear as nighttime strolls in invisibility cloaks. And all I ask is that you put on the Sorting Hat, hoping that it tells you that you belong...in my house. ‘Cos I would sacrifice for you, similar to Dumbledore. Be the general of this man’s army and we can last forever like Nicolas Flamel and Sorcerer’s Stones. More than a timeline of all seven books, if each one was a horcrux made to keep us together…but better. So get the healers to lock me up in St. Mungo’s, because I am love sick. No potion can cure me, and what you’ve used is closer to the dark arts. But I’m willing to take the gamble like Exploding Snap with card sharks. So clearly, I’m see-through, almost feeling Nearly Headless. So I confess this all without veritaserum hoping that I won’t regret this. So I'm trying to find the Marauder's map to your soul…

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good”. Because I’m trying to steal your heart and provide a bandage…and if I ever succeed, then “mischief managed.”

IStillDon'tLoveYou..

At the time it seemed absurd, and I thought I just misheard when she told me that she loved me. Then I had to fight the urge, to repeat the same words that I knew she was expecting from me. So I mustered up the nerve, gave her the truth that she deserved and so I told her I don’t love you. But it’s not that I don’t love you, not that I can’t love you, it’s more of the fact that I don’t want to.

But this isn’t an apology, more like a request to be an anomaly. To take “love” and define it on our own terms. ‘Cos currently, I know there’s something wrong with me when I can write a definition like it’s homework. At this rate, it’s closer to make believe. But I’d turn Christopher Reeves, wear my heart on my sleeve, like Toronto players and a maple leaf. A cliché definition is all we’re really left with and I hate it. ‘Cos you alone make me feel like…some word that hasn’t even been invented yet…I’m infloveuated.

Because making up a word is my only option. ‘Cos love is now casual, thrown around with no need to be factual, and destroyed its original intent like antitoxin. So going by those standards, I bear my gold standard and say that I still can’t love you. But I would exchange eloquent banter, until I get shot down like Jordan Manners and I regret never having said I loved you…But the word is already dead to me. Though I’d repeat it for the sake of having more time with you, to convince you even just in passing through, that to me you’re beyond heavenly. Though I still can’t love you.

See, those who have ‘loved’ and have ‘been loved’ have already been through enough…They’ve been misused, mistreated, misunderstood, abused and ignored and dragged through the rough…patches of relationships. Through the rocky roads and nights spent in the solace of cookies and cream courtesy of Oreos and a broken heart. Crying with a runny nose, left only with tissues and tears when the relationship falls apart. So that’s why I just can’t love you…

But I must admit, you’re hard to quit ‘cos you’re the best thing that’s happened to me, since the day that I discovered poetry. Tryna catch signs, dodging landmines, forgetting there was a time when you didn’t come first for me. But you’re closer to my life line, try to cut mine…your scissors break like in Hercules. I don’t want to be your lover…I want to be more like the best of friends. ‘Cos in relationships, all it takes is one mistake for the best to end. And the words “I love you” won’t be enough for these two hearts and the rest to mend. And as your bestest friend, I’ll hold your heart next to mine in a chest with the best defense. But secretly, I just want to have a future with you. Regardless of the relationship we’d share for the years to come, now I’m seeming dumb, ‘cos I was the one there for you when you were back on the market in a game of one, that no one’s won.

So forget labeling affection, it only leads in misdirection, so trust that I’d avoid saying that line at all. Even with appropriate exclamation, it’s all in the interpretation of those 3 words that defines it all. I. Love. You.
3 words that only matter as much as it does to those involved. And trust me when I say it…‘cos it means I’d catch you every time you fall, answer the phone every time you call and share a personal moment with you from across the hall. But that doesn’t mean everyone else feels the same, yet I’d risk the potential pain, for all the potential gain, even when our backs are against the wall.

If only I could read your mind…I would ask if you were willing to help me redesign the term. See I don’t love you. I…can’t love you. And I don’t want to. You see…I’m already infloveuated.

Ms.Interpretation

Love. The one and only weakness of a Disney made Hercules. And this narcissistic juggernaut with too much certainty. At first I had no fear, till I ran into my dear, like the bumper of a van. Studied all that I could glean, from what little I could see like a lover of exams. But damn…

Compared to these girls that I’ve come across lately…she has me thinking maybe. Because never did she make me, pledge my allegiance to a singular. Just proud to be there like the parents of a winner. Yet me, I’m nothing but a sinner. Dowsing propane on the fires of hell, and crafting analogies and stories for these liars to tell. But the truth is still amongst them. And quickly it becomes them.

See, I love her…with all my heart. Every muscle, every beat. Every vessel, every ventricle. It doesn’t add up, but for her…I’d learn pi to a thousand some decimals, just to impress her. ‘Cos my life would seem lesser, if my life had less her.
And in her very own words, she designed. The prettiest of pictures. Like popular verses out of scripture, she had my attention.

She said…

That if I took her hand, she would lead me on the path to success. Closer to an angel, but a temptress no less. She’d protect me from the pain that would live inside my chest, if another human being ever put me to the test. And this sudden lack of rest, has me flirting with the most attractive relative of death. Though I fear if I let her hand go, then I’d Van Gogh myself.

So she whispered in my ear…
That I would be her man and that she could be my muse. She’d quote nothing but the truth, so I wouldn’t be a mute. With my voice and my words, she advised that I let myself be heard, and to never let another person estimate my worth. I looked her in her eyes and I asked her.

“Who are you?”
She said “I’m in your heart and your mind.”
“Are you God?”
She said “I don’t know…just reflect and determine what’s inside your soul.”

So I looked up above me to an image of her face with her name underneath it…Miss Interpretation. The partner I’ve been blessed with so I can study what’s around me…so I take her hand in mine and I thank her that she found me.

Somethin'Wrong

Tell me you ain’t with that dude on your side
And I don’t mean this to be rude when I rhyme…but
Tell me you ain’t doing that dude on your side
If it’s true then there’s something going wrong around here.

She got a thing for them white boys. You know...thin, emo, tight clothes. Looking uncomfortable like they're walking on a tight rope. And I’m wondering, when she’s gonna see the light, ‘cos none of these hipsters, are ever gonna treat her right. Seriously, you’re kidding me…’Cos really g? You think he’s so appealing in his neon green, skinny jeans? And most definitely his style is in question, because there’s gotta be something, wrong if his v-neck reach the bottom of his belly button. Is your type really guys that steal the swag of Justin Bieber? Or maybe it’s the shoes…I mean, maybe I have to be a hypebeast, start rocking Nike’s, with a clean fit white tee…then I could get a girl to like me. I mean, I’m honestly sorry that I don’t look like someone out of Twilight. But you see, I’m not the type to white lie, but for every girl I’m the farthest from the right type. Instead…I work to be that highlight, when you reflect on your day by your nightlight, forget about a nightlife I’ll spend my 10 o’clock’s tryna handwrite, a message out to you hoping that in hindsight, you change your preferences for the nice guy.

Tell me you ain’t with that dude on your side
And I don’t mean this to be rude when I rhyme…but
Tell me you ain’t doing that dude on your side
If it’s true then there’s something going wrong around here.

If it ain’t them then she’s into those artist types. You know, Nikon’s and flashing lights. Playing guitars singing songs they write…just to feed the hype. And just because of that, girls think they’re super nice…Then maybe I should learn to sing and sit in front of a camera. Pluck strings, just sing and hope that some girl out there will fall for an amateur. But if that’s the case, I ain’t mad at cha. ‘Cos I’m thinking maybe it works for poets too, though compared to these guys I’m 0-2. Then there’s jocks and thugs too, so tell me what the hell am I supposed to do? ‘Cos when I see girls like you, I start getting butterflies. Then I think to myself, what ever happened to the funny guy, the friend that listens to you all the time, or the type of dude that’s just kinda shy? Guys that just get pushed aside…then y’all complain the good guys are in short supply!? ‘Cos I understand that preference can be accountable, and finding Mr. Right is a different kind of animal, but you're dating a guy with the ego of 20 cantaloupes, that's just plain horny...antelope, a douche in Abercrombie & Fitch gear, cocky ass dudes the opposite of sincere, now I’m not hating but there’s something wrong with this shit here.

Tell me you ain’t with that dude on your side
And I don’t mean this to be rude when I rhyme…but
Tell me you ain’t doing that dude on your side
If it’s true then there’s something going wrong around here.

See those kinds of guys, are alright but girls only see what they act like…they’re cast members. But in actuality, they’re probably ass wipes…with bad tempers. But getting y’all to see what I see…I probably have a better chance at beating up Brock Lesnar, going to China and slow dancing with the last emperor, getting Bob Marley to chant white power with some clan members or catching a Squirtle and teaching it the attack Ember.
Because I’ve learned that I’m usually Ned Flanders, the TOO nice type. And ever since my first rhyme, I’ve spent way too much time, trying to get a verse right. ‘Cos on stage and on the tracks I’m like Raiden from Mortal Kombat, Atilla the Hun riding in from horseback, tsunamis and tornadoes on the forecast, and repeatedly getting kicked in the ballsac. But with girls I’m more like cold lemonade on a sunny day, chick flicks on a Saturday starring Anne Hathaway, and phone conversations at 4AM staying wide awake.
But when I meet that girl so perfect she could make heaven wait, and thinking about her almost makes me levitate, I always seem hesitate like a midget taking on a heavyweight. Then she has me down in with a line like limbo, killed the last chunk of my ego, traits left me feeling incomplete…Sisqo, so I took my nice guy attributes and threw them out the window.

WhatIWant

There comes a time in every man’s life where they have to be truthful and comfortable with themselves and their emotions. He has to come to grips with how he feels, no matter what the repercussions may be or how he will be seen by his peers. He has to stand firm in what he believes and not let anyone influence his opinion or conviction. So the fact of the matter is…

I

LOVE

ASIAN GIRLS.

Yes, it’s true. But not just any Oriental beauty…I want a SUPER ASIAN girl!

Asian like…Tai Chi and Kung Fu.
Asian like…Feng Shui and chopsticks.
Asian like…anime and manga…Naruto, Inu Yasha and Dragonball Z.
A girl that knows what all of those are…and likes them.

Give me Lucy Liu, Kelly Hu, and Brenda Song…but without the perfect English.
Something like Zhang Ziyi, Kim Yuna or any K-pop singer you’ve ever heard of.
I want her so Asian that she bleeds soy sauce and emits laser light shows and bubbly pop music.
I want a girl so Asian that if you were to give her a dress and a sword, she would blend in perfectly on the set of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Martial arts moves included.
So Asian that just bringing up her name brings to mind sexy dragon ladies hidden beneath the makeup of a geisha…but without the makeup. And I could hold her as close as I wanted because of her non-existent breasteses.
So Asian that she would have a tattoo on her back saying Made In China. Or one on her butt that says Made in Taiwan.

A girl that I could take out and enjoy the night with as I stand behind her as she moves to the beat of the music…coming right out of speakers on the DDR machine she’s playing on.
A girl that would be just as at home at a karaoke bar drinking sake as she would in a dark room…playing Starcraft, DragonQuest and Pokemon. Looking up Yu-Gi-Oh! Cards on eBay while she’s burning the newest released movie on a bootleg Blu-Ray disc to watch in a few hours.
I want a girl that slips her L’s into R’s and sometimes her F’s into P’s.
A girl so Asian that she would always try to speak Asian to me…or try to teach me. But I would always ask for subtitles. Even though it’s in person and that’s really not possible…but I still wish it would be…someday.

I want an Asian girl so I can do Asian things…
Like…solve math equations. Learn to play the piano. Not drive well. Or go outside of our comfort zones and do something crazy…like snowboarding. But not too much, because I want to preserve her Asian-ness.

During our first date she would invite me over to meet her parents, LingLing and Jason. Last name Kim, or Lee, or Chen, or Reyes…or something to that effect. And in between eating rice and noodles for dinner, and having halo-halo for dessert…we would discuss Civics, Skylines, 350Zs and Integras.
The times we spend together at her house would consist of watching the latest episode of her favourite Korean drama, drinking green tea, while redoing the HTML coding on her Tumblr and Blogspot.
And one day we’ll get married. Have little kids like Russell from UP and she would hit them…like most Asian parents do. But the way SHE does it…would be complete with a Bruce Lee “HIYYYAAA!” to accompany her jumping crane kick. And we would live happily ever after…unless we starred in a movie where one of us has to eventually die of cancer.

The End.

NowTHISIsALovePoem

Now THIS, is a love poem.
Every person is born into a world of sin. But she rescued me from it.
Because if I ever learned to ask for an angel, she would be the one sent to me.
But in a way I was the one sent to her. Because there is no way I could have met anyone worth mentioning in the same breath as her on my own. Regardless of how fate controls my life, or how God wants events to unfold, or how the wheel spins and my karma earns me a single wish that would come true…she would still have been beyond all of that.
E-Harmony can’t come up with enough questions or commercials to manage something like what we have…because this was a match made in a made up place beyond God’s own version of heaven…because even our heaven has to end.

To anyone else walking down the street, she’s nothing but another Asian.
I can’t even manage to make this sound poetic or complicated because I think pure truth is better than that.
Simply put, she is everything I could ever want in a girl. And that is far from an embellishment.
Each quality that one would deem suitable in a soulmate…she has it.
She is not a supermodel…because in my mind, supermodels model themselves after her.
Hoping to be beautiful…but all they manage is an imitation of everything that makes her…her.
Except that what they find is only on the outside, so they’re only the chocolate coating.

During all the times my dad gave me the silent treatment…she was the one that kept me sane.
School suspensions? No guilt trip included, because she knew me enough to know that nothing could make a difference more than what she still thought of me.
No matter how horrible I did in school, she still thought I was smart. I think she still does, even though the only thing I do now is write poetry and sit around in film and drama all day. I guess you could say I’m an artsy type…but I say that’s because she rubbed off on me. No, she’s not a visual artist…she’s just a work of art unsurpassed by any man-made character on television meant to be perfect…I’m surprised even God was able to make her.
So every Sunday as I’m praying in church…I close my eyes and there she is next to me.
Not knowing that in a way, I’m praying for someone just like her.

In a few more years when I’m finished with school and I’m working for a living…
I promise that I will buy you a house. Take you to the spa just because it’s a Thursday.
Send you to the Philippines for however long you want.
Get you a maid and a cook so you wouldn’t even have to lift a finger.
Be your maid and cook so I can show you I’m willing to do the dirty work to make you happy.
Anything you want, because no matter how hard I try…
I will never be able to repay you for everything you have done for me.
It’s been a few years since I’ve even thought about you this much and I’m sorry.
Because everyday, you only get closer and closer to being a saint in my eyes.
And I’m here…trapped between a monster and a person far too deep in darkness.

Because when all else fails, I will love you until there’s no more hurt and you couldn’t handle anymore love. If I ever saw you cry I would be the first person to punch the reason for it, in the face…I don’t care if it’s an inanimate object or a person…if it’s an event, then I’ll just punch the air or something.
See, if life has taught me anything…it’s not to overlook what’s right in front of you. Appreciate everything for what it is because nothing will stay the same forever. Though you and forever coincide in my eyes, because even when I have a wife and all 4 kids I asked for named like the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, you will always come first. When you leave me, I will dedicate the rest of my life to making you happy.
So I thought I’d make sure I didn’t let you slip through my fingers and just tell you the same thing I tell you everyday.

I love you mama.

SlamPoets

I am not…a slam poet.
I SLAM poets!

And every cookie cutter poet that is out there right now.
All of a sudden, every body thinks they’re Def Poets and Brave New Voices.
So let me Express Myself in a way that lets me describe what’s happening to this form of expression I used to love…Hell, I still do. But it’s like she’s cheating on me with every person that’s ever had a crush on somebody and was too scared to say so. Every person that’s ever suffered through heartbreak and just wants to get emotional. Every person that wants to stand up for their rights even when they don’t know what the hell they’re talking about. Every wannabe motivational speaker who wants to try and be an inspiration to others. Every self-absorbed speaker who just wants to talk about themselves and find a way to make it seem deeper than it actually is. Every pseudo intellectual or political activist that thinks being a poet is all about writing about the problems of the world. News flash, it doesn’t mean a thing if you don’t believe in it beyond what is on the surface.

But let me straighten this out. You are not a poet, just because you can rhyme cat, with hat. Having a certain rhyme scheme or cadence doesn’t make you a good poet, it makes you a rapper. Using metaphors and similes doesn’t make you deep, it makes you an English student. Using rhetoric or comedy doesn’t make you a poet, just a person with an entertaining speech. So stop trying to point out the pros and cons, using your prose and poems. You are not the dopest because you get angry, loud, riled up or passionate when you deliver a piece. None of it matters without content, so don’t get gassed up if you’re just okay with the words.

I’m witnessing a death of the art form but there’s nothing I can do about it.

Because I am not…a beat poet.
I BEAT poets!
And every slam poet and illiterate writer who’s ever contributed to the downfall of poetry.

POW! Every single “poet” that’s ever written poems for pussy.
POW! Every single “poet” that’s just looking for attention.
POW! Every single “poet” that’s picked up a pen and a pad because it became cool.
POW! Every single “poet” that jumped on the spoken word bandwagon.

See, the first mistake is calling what you do poetry.
Because complaining about your problems vocally, does not give you the right to yell “HEY, NOTICE ME!”
Hiding under the veil of “I’m trying to create awareness and understanding in the community.”
So my point is this.

If you have no deeper understanding of what we do, beyond thinking that we just say stuff that makes you go “Oooooh”, “Ahhhhhh”, “Awwww” and more words you can snap your fingers to…then don’t’ try this at home.
Just go back to watching Def Poetry Jam in your spare time.
If you are not well-versed in this art from…then LEAVE POETRY ALONE!
If you are not well read. Not bothering to learn from what’s already been said.
Then don’t bother agreeing with me and saying the art form is dead…because in the end, we are keeping it alive.
Just treat it with the respect it deserves.

JustAnotherLovePoem

I’m not going to waste time with an introduction describing this piece because in the end, it’s just another love poem. Another page in the anthologies of love poems I’ve written through the years about females that have captivated me enough, to make me want to waste hours thinking about them and how great they are. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t mean this. So, if I ever tell you that this piece was about you…then it’s still as meaningful as the first one I ever wrote.
But to everyone else, this is just another love poem.

This is just another 3 minute piece about how I think this one girl is beyond comparison. A girl that could be the definition of average to you, because none of you are thinking “Oh, he’s talking about her…I’m 100% sure”. And I’m sure you’re not thinking that so stop pretending that you are.

Here’s another minute and a half of inane babbling of me describing how perfect she is. How every single one of her flaws just end up seeming cute to me and every sentence she’s ever said to me is my favourite sentence EVER. How I like her a whole bunch of a lot more than is necessary because she’s amazingly awesome and I’m wishing I could be a part of that. Maybe even how she’s so attractive that the word attractive isn’t enough to even describe her pinky toe and how her face has me forgetting the face of every other girl I’ve seen before her.

How metaphors don’t do justice to her essence, and nothing I can imagine is as beautiful as her…and believe me I’ve tried. How no man will ever deserve her…though I’m praying she would settle for me. Even though the chances of that happening are like me getting hit by a car…while getting struck by lightning…and getting bitten simultaneously by a radioactive bug and a really drunk homeless man…as tornadoes touch down and a tsunami hits Toronto in 2012.

But this is just another love poem where I say that the only thing I want from her is a hug when I’m feeling down. Maybe a smile, when I’m feeling like everything’s going wrong. Maybe a couple of minutes alone in a park when it feels like everything is beyond hectic. Maybe a couple more romantic instances in relation to problems that either one of us could be having, as a way to get away from it all. And this is the sentence where I talk about how much I wish I could just escape with her someplace, right between where the angels sleep and where earth and heaven meet.

Now this is the part where I talk about how much she means to me. How I wish that she’s fallen asleep or even left while I’m saying this because I don’t have the courage to let her know any of this. But then again, this is just another love poem. Because all I’ve ever done is write love poems.

I’ve never acted on any of it because I have this fear of rejection that I just can’t get over. So I write, and I write.
In the end, this is probably just another love poem to add to the collection. But then again…maybe it’s not.

Monster

I think…I might be a monster.
I know it sounds insane, but hear me out.
I think I might be a monster. No fangs, no claws, no fur...just bad thoughts, bad experiences and bad actions with nice intentions.

I think this might have made me a monster.
Because if there's nothing to fear but fear itself, then I stare into the mirror and I fear myself. Because I know what lies beneath, so I hide behind words I've pieced trying to disguise the beast.

See, I know I'm a monster.
It's all about me, so I admit I'm selfish and conceited even though I don’t even like myself that much. I’m always asking questions for the sake of my own sanity like: What do other people think of me? Am I cool now or am I still a loser? Damn, I'm still a loser.
A loser standing up to get attention, never mind having an answer for anything or saying anything worth listening to. Grabbing the spotlight just so I can try to show people the better side of me. Showcasing positives because I'm too insecure to bear any flaws to the world.

See, for me image comes first and foremost so I have to be cool. I carefully choose what to wear hoping that even one girl will walk up to me and tell me that I look handsome today. I put on a show of bravado, faking confidence because I have to be a man. Show no fear, shed no tears and already that's something I can't do. I feel no guilt, no sadness. Blocking out the pain of lashes caused by pain and madness. But I will not let a tear drop, because boys don't cry…men do. But I refuse to take responsibility...

And that makes me a monster.
Every. Single. Day. I wish that people would see nothing but good things in me, never commenting with nothing less than a compliment. But...I can't do it myself. I'm judgmental by nature, rating girls passing by with score cards and stat bars. You can try telling me that it's normal for a teenager, but I think there's something wrong with me.

I think I might be a monster.
Shaken and ripped apart by heartbreak and haphazardly stitched back in parts as I try to pull myself together in a rush so I could try again and after the last time…I think I did it wrong or made a mistake or something. It’s almost like a case of exchanged limbs; try to move my leg but my shoulder twitches…now I can't do what I know I need to. And whenever this happens I turn more and more into a monster...and I can’t stop it.
I don’t bother trying to learn anything from experience, I take my thread and needle. Tearing open the stitches that cover my chest and back, I place my hand through empty space grasping for the heart I yearn to give someone.

But no one's willing to fall for a monster.
Flamethrowing propane in words, hoping I can light a fire in a listener. I'm living in the dark, the absence of light and God because I've already convinced myself I belong there; trying to hide in insecurity searching for a sense of security. Or I can spit venom, making people feel bad to make myself feel better about my own flaws, so I can gain something like a little bit of confidence.

And it’s almost like something’s broken inside of me…because I don't feel anything. Ain't no tears fallen yet, and there's none soon coming, though I'm trying everything to un-desensitize myself. I'm unfazed by death and glorify violence so I hate what I've become. Indifferent to poverty and suffering because all I'm worried about is living a good life and being happy. But what needs to be done is the opposite, just smile and be nice...but I'm content not to be a part of it, not thinking for a second about a single consequence.

So I think I’m a monster…just trying to belong. Looking for someplace I can be surrounded by monsters like me.
Then I realize that I'm already there. See, monsters are common; it's the angels that are hard to find. Earth's a breeding ground, nurtured by false ideas, bad advertisement, twisted morals, booze and boobs, and social evolution that's taking us the opposite way.

We're all the same but I'm transforming before my very eyes. I can't yell...I can't scream...I can't call for help and I can't cry. Because monsters are the reason people die. We all have monsters hidden on the inside, and that’s no lie. It’s not a big secret but I know why…because we know how to stop it, but we just don’t try.