Words.

When the words are still on the tip of my tongue, they spill onto paper.
I've been reduced again to a blubbering pile of heart-broken adolescence.
Nothing remarkable, nothing spectacular, nothing new.

But as many times as it's been written, sung, and elaborated, it seems as though the pain in my chest simply will not dull.
I could relate, this I'm aware of, but empathy never replaces desire, it never filled a void.

I would take solace in your smile, if my anger didn't eat away the shards of pleasant memory.
To see your success, compare it to my tears, suicide. I could die and die again.

Such a jaded figure, you stand so tall, and even in your ugliness, do I worship you.
Of course, it hurts to breathe. Even now you complete me.
And you take away my blood, sweat, tears, and essence. I see you cast it aside just as quickly as you accept it.

And watch me spout romantic words, one to a million, all adding up to nothing.
Nothing to you, me, or anyone.
Words that will never make history or amount to your brilliance.