And I Never Asked To Be A Poet

and I never asked to be a poet

but when I don't write

I always make a line

it's just a quick decision

whether I cut it

or snort it

and I could make myself bleed

or I could make a living

writing these sad lyrics

and shouting at strangers

doing both is working out

for how long? guess I'll try

to find out, and hopefully

make it out alive

"lyricist" - zero (me)

[it's yet another song draft rather than a poem but ayyyy writing block!!!! ]

some time ago already, a month maybe

a cold night and a blue apartment

just the kitchen lit up and just me inside

the buzz of the microwave

and the holler of the wind

and the shake of my hand

and the poorly executed confession

"it's not back, not really. it's just

my brain is a scumbag and it just

wants me to go down, and i just

can't tell it to shut up every time,

you know"

and you didn't before

but you tried your best in the moment

you told me you will be there always

and I appreciated it, like no other

I swear I did

and you told me

"please call me if this ever gets worse"

no idea why, it came back like a curse

you still don't know, noone does, actually

I'll tell you the truth only when you ask for it

because you don't need this in your life

on another cold night, in a lit up apartment

I'm telling you goodnight, far too early

• "tonight I'm going to sleep hungry" - zero [me]

apparently I have 100 likes on this account, which is not exactly a lot considering how many things I posted but I'm still happy about it [:

there aren't any words in which I could put the purest act of your love that is sitting with me at night and listening to me complain about writing poems and songs

I hope you realise all the love in them is for you

I'm sitting at a bus stop almost alone and I haven't been this calm in months

The same bus passed three times already but it's not what I'm looking for

And this should be it, this should be reason enough to write

but it's not

For I've been tired to my core and all I've wanted

Is to be held by the one adult person I let myself be known

For I need something bigger than my name. For I need someone who knows better than I do

But it's all futile and I can't bring myself to ask her for kindness

But it's all without point and I can't write anymore

"Nomen Omen, just like Moliére" - Zero (me)

how am I to write of things so beautiful by themselves

there are yellows lights outside and blue fluorescent lights

there was a man on the bus who was so obviously an addict

he's found a teenager's phone by his seat and told his every move to a woman he didn't know for

"he's had too many problems already to steal anything really"

there are yellow nights of laughter and blue strangers who weep in churches

there is a part time job of mine at a flower shop

and I can't explain how throwing out stem cuttings makes me the happiest I've been all week

the world's poetry writes itself and I feel useless in my craftsmanship

"poetry in breathing" - zero (me)

you improvise a home by street lights

act like the dark is welcoming enough

leave at the same hour day by day

noone really knows what you're doing

you don't really know what you're searching for

your sister calls it running away

you try to say it's anything but

who are you trying to convince

your sister calls it running away

your mother says it is alright for

you get back when it's getting late

your sister calls it running away

you don't think it's a run if noone's chasing

zero (me)