FEBRUARY COMPILATION (06 / 02 / 26)

•  End of Heartbreak
• (Don't) Choose Me
• Quiet.
• A Pretentious Poet's Remorse.
• Isolation. 
•  

End of Heartbreak

Lately I’ve found myself unable to love another
Without poisoning the golden glass we drink from,
With a drop or two of the jealousy I can’t smother.

Knowing my beloved is friend of some other men
Ignites in me a feeling of unworthiness I can’t tame,
For they’re handsome, better than me in every sense.

Even if all I get is a name, I know they’re better.
It doesn’t take much to outdo a guy like myself,
So pretty much anybody else could deserve her.

Now I’m no cuck, for this is no fetish; it’s a curse,
A punishment born from my inability to trust my own.
As a result, I break myself to the point of departure.

How can I trust my love won’t cheat when, evidently,
She’s surrounded by men that can make her happy anyday?
If she does choose to stay with me, it’d be solely out of pity.

And honestly, I’d not blame Her for leaving me behind.
For I would too if I had a boyfriend like myself,
Whose ugliness is unrivaled in both body and mind.

I’ve got no money to gift, no beauty to offer, nothing.
Yet knowing that, I keep trying to find true love, hopeful,
Knowing well the kind of monster I’m slowly becoming.

 
Even without being in a relationship, if I do chase her,
The door stays open for anybody to take her away,
For I will never deserve to stand beside as her forever.

 

(DON’T) CHOOSE ME

Eight billion people live on the same planet we both live on,
Four billions of them are men, men of all kinds and races.
With that fact you know is an objective truth even within,
Why’d you choose me? Why not choose another over this disgrace?

My face is marred, swollen, inexpressive—ain’t it sickening?
Can you picture yourself kissing my puffed cheeks or broken lips?
I’d puke at the thought of it, and I don’t feel you’re listening.
How can’t you find disgust in my flabby and wide hips?

There are many handsome, chiseled, god-like men out there;
Rich, powerful, influential, kind, considerate, enviable…
Why pick the rotten flesh of a fiend? To you, it’s not fair.

There are men with smarts, skills, athleticism, and even manners,

Things I lack severely in more than one metaphorical sense.
My withered heart bears a shack, whilst you deserve a manor.
Accept it for once: I’m a pick-me, a monstrous man, dense…

Stop reciprocating my feelings, stop choosing me—don’t do it.
For I won’t say no straight up; I’ll accept you in, I’ll love you.
But know well you grabbed a pebble instead of gold from the pit.
Regret now before it’s too late. Leave, run, hate me as I do.

One day I’ll harm you, one day you’ll realize you chose wrong.
One day you’ll see and suffer the consequences of your choice.
I love you, but my love is corrupt—choose well, try to be strong.
Don’t listen to your heart’s voice, don’t listen to your heart’s voice. 

Quiet

In silence I stay, awaiting to be wanted,
Knowing very well I don’t deserve so.
I wait, I wait; I don’t even get a “Hello.”
If I never initiated, they’d have never responded.

My spirit once happily pursued others for a chat;
Doing so was the highlight of my lonesome youth,
Till one day it realized, at last, one silly little truth:
If he doesn’t greet first, nobody wonders where he’s at.

My tears and pains—I faced them all by myself, alone;
My joys and happiness were unknown as well to all.
Neither my friends nor family—nobody’s ever known
The many times I broke my bones and hurt from the fall.

They see a quiet man; they don’t see my misery, my desire,
My longing to be chosen against my will, twisted as it may sound.
I don’t want to ask or search to find, but to be asked for and found;
Otherwise I feel weak, needy, dumb… like a man in dog’s attire.

 

A Pretentious Poet’s Remorse

I write the things my mind dictates, the feelings my heart expresses,
Retell the tales people have forgotten, and tell of myself, of life itself,
My hands explore the page swiftly, looking for defeats and successes,
The page may be blank, but it’s not empty; I see it, a mirror to the self.

Yet I remain a failure as a poet, for I lack the nurtured intellect of one,
The rhymes I use, I see them on a website; the things I say, I look ’em up,
My efforts being null in comparison to what old poets would’ve done,
They had to read, draft, think, and that’s just the bottom of the cup.

They researched, experimented, even wrote about what they lived,
Yet I have the power to do all that with one miserable, quick click,
Reducing hours of the mindful efforts from which their works derived,
Shaming this noble art under the fraudulent pen name of Quinn Nick.

I complain as if the world would care, as if any of that mattered,
Writing about people as if they held any relevance to the reader,
Yet I know… nobody cares, nobody reads the crap I’ve scattered,
I’m but another blind sheep, a mangy hound without a leader.

My hands were never stained by the ink, nor cut by the paper,

My eyes never felt the aid of candlelight in the middle of the night,

Not even once I studied the art, I’ve done no more than escaping Her,

Poe, Rilke, Hardy, Homer, Hesiod, to write they earned their right

And I haven’t — I’m not even trying to — and that’s blasphemous,

Should the ignorant write about things he knows nothing about?

I’m but a maggot whose soul and heart are in evidence, astonished.

There are tools without which my stanzas would certainly be nothing.

I’m feeding my ego and betraying a thousand years of tradition,

Feeding it nonsense I share online on a stupid blogger page, shameless,

True poets would have never made the very pathetic choices I’ve made,

They’d disapprove if they could see the scam I show off, ever blameless.

 

Isolation

I isolate myself in my room to write nonsense again and again,
Waking up as early as five in the morning, six, even seven at times.
I’m told to sleep, but I can’t—not until I’ve cleared up my mental den
From any and all impurities with the most repugnant rhymes.

Every stanza written, for as bad as it may be, helps me find comfort
In what otherwise I’d define as a horrible world devoid of all hope.
My body aches, my eyes feel heavy, and make evident my discomfort,
Yet they’d not understand why, even in exhaustion, I’d use this to cope.

As my vessel falls apart, I make it my duty to report so textually,
In a crazed attempt to craft art, though I lack the talent and skills.
My weakened hands type in a frenzy that might fade eventually,
The moment fatigue, nausea, its role of warning me, comes to fulfill.

The plastic chair barely holds my weight as I fall back onto the floor,
Product of sleep deprivation and the stubborn habit of waking early
When I have absolutely nothing to do but the useless hobbies I adore.
By the time the sun’s above me, I know I’ll look saggy-faced and surly.

My body sinks into the floor, my head lies set in place, my arms numb.
I close my eyes, giving in to the sensation of absolute defeat in the end,
And the morning comes to pass—glad to my biological needs I succumb.
One day, the delusional things I write about will lead me to transcend.