My emotions are triggered
in the snap of a finger,
wish I could handle them more freely,
but I always tend to linger.
One moment I’m standing in a castle
dancing gaily in the throne room,
suddenly I’m magma red with anger
the captive shadow of my own doom.
I inspire my reflection
ripples tell me I’m a prophet,
I skip the stone of my deception,
crippled thoughts of how I’ve lost it.
Have you ever read my writing
finding lines that resonate well,
or do you cringe within a quick glance
laughing at the fact it won’t sell?
Perhaps I care too much about you,
since the feeling is never mutual:
the love you had for me is long lost
while mine it still won’t die; per usual.
My emotions are weapons
that I wield without possession,
I wish that they belonged to me,
but yet I never learn my lesson.
There are visitors who spend the night
and vanish come the daybreak
while others will arrive in spite,
defenders on the play fake.
I’m touching down upon the ground
then floating on like red balloons.
I’ll roam around up in the clouds
I hope it ends; I’ll see you soon.
Sometimes I start a poem like this one
thinking that I’m a modern day Shakespeare,
but before the thing is even half done
unconfidently I respond to my fake fears.
If my writing isn’t valuable, then I’m not,
you validation seeking freak, just calm down.
Oh wait, my writing is a masterpiece, like I thought,
these ups and downs are so profound without a sound.
My emotions come faster
than the Second Coming’s rapture;
hmm, should I end my life today
or wait for happily ever after?