My birth certificate has an error.
My life truly started nearly thirty years after the date that was printed on that paper.
It took almost three full decades to finally feel alive and all I had to do was accept myself.
All I had to do was stop lying.
Tag: Poetry
Still
He knows everything
and he still loves me.
He knows everything
and he is still here.
Statistics
I'm a statistic, but aren't we all?
We all exist as a number,
a simple digit paying dues
to whatever damage
has been done to us.
That is the sadness of our reality.
We are all just data points and
percentages in a passive population.
Learning
Learning is the movement of ideas.
It's constant,
forever changing and expanding
into areas that we didn't know existed.
Areas that morph all that we believe
and all that we perceive
into concepts that will never
be able to remain stagnant.
Enabler
You were my enabler.
You provoked and praised
the most pitiful, pathetic
parts of me.
Letting go of you meant more
than letting go of bad habits.
It meant escaping a version of myself
that I never desired to know.
Affirmations
The serene words
stamped and secured
to my tea sachet
cannot console me.
The ink of the inspirationalaffirmation sits ignored,
wet and blurred by either
tears or condensation.
Which one I do not know.
Burdens
We are strangers, you and I.
Two people only aware
of one another's existence.
Yet I am desperate to tell you
my most awful secrets...
My most shameful
silent sufferings.
Would you like to hear them?
Would you like to help me
carry my burdens?
Disconnected
Your number is still in my phone,
yet I know I'll never call.
At this point it's simply an area code
and seven digits held between a couple
little dashes.
That's all it is.
A series of symbols secured to a dead line.
Yet I still refuse delete it.
I still cannot let you go.
Purgatory
You are my purgatory,
a perfect medium between
heaven and hell.
I crave your warmth,
yet I fear it just as much.
Palatable
You want my mouth forcibly set to filter my statements into sanitized, secure sentences.
Sentences formed only to satisfy you while they sit bland and awkward on my tongue.
How does such dullness please you?
Is lifelessness really that palatable?
AO Poetry 
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