ex-friends

     Is it a long con? When is your job done? Will you feel satisfied when I admit that you've won? Ex-friends. Staring blankly, I could've told you about everything from the start. Figuring I wouldn't need to because we'd never be apart. I had faith in your art, in what makes you smart. I elevated myself just to feel you in part. I wanted to feel like you, I like you, I might just reach far. You were holding me back but I admit that I failed at the start. When I lied to your eyes it was the beginning of our times, the start of the unending unspoken compromise. I understand that I don't understand what you see in my mind. I wanted this to be understood in the words of our lines, of the sentences we speak truthfully when we don't lie and say "we're fine". We should talk about each other, what makes my personality mine. And what makes yours so kind, I wish you surmised that my love for you was unwise but I held onto it for dear life. This isn't easy, I spread my words gleefully in the hopes that you'll see me. Narcissism or self-love is a summary of my journey. I'm scared I don't care enough about you or myself. How do I make sure that you see that I'm using my attention to hold onto what we have but I fear that I don't have what it takes to have had what we had. It doesn't matter, blood splatters and tears slip through my fingers onto this page. I don't know what else to say, I'm at the end of the stage in which I cared about or gauged the position I caved into your life, always. Always cared what I didn't say, what I wanted was sage wisdom or knowledge to break me free from this cage and I hoped it was in the people I paved so much of my life with starting in the days when I was just a kid, didn't know it would go this way but my friends of my friends they would say stories of a man they knew once, about your age, he was young he never knew what he was capable of doing or maybe he was naive, wrote his broken concepts on a page. The boy lost his life at a young age, unsure of himself and what his mind could really show him. So he tried and he tried and he tried to write a poem. Nobody knows him, and he believes that nobody owes him. Until those late nights grab hold and he feels so, so cold and alone and the people all on the phone want to see him stripped to bones, now what do I have to hold? What does life have in store? I've made it quite clear, I want this to come with no fear, no sorrow from a peer. I want what I feel I've never gotten. Understanding that feels pure and unrotten. If this is how it must be then we'll see. If there's another way then I guess we'll just have to see. For now, this must be.