Illuminating light
from a booklight in my bed
I do not read; I write
of the feelings from my chest
I’m flying like a kite
and you’re fucking with my head
We always say goodnight
when we lay ourselves to rest

I am there
in your bed
or we’re out on our bikes

and I’m there
in your mind
more often than you’d like

I’m addic
ted to you
and the things that you say

I just don’t
understand
How you make me feel this way

So baby
please just come
here, I’ll make you feel fine

because I
am all yours
and you are all mine.

I write about you and I
and the things I wish we were

I write about the things we've seen
and the things I wish I heard

I write about how you make me feel
and I hope you feel the same

I write about the laws of love
while you write the rules of the game.

Love is merely a word which
cannot describe how I feel about you.
For the loveliest of verses cannot
make me smile the way you do.
Because you, my dear, deserve far
much more than those four
letters which are the
understatement of love.

Love is but a summary; a
generalization of romance, and
you, my dear, deserve far much more.

I promise you love
to the power of a million horse drawn
chariots on a midsummers day.
I promise you love
of the plentitude of all the acorns
gathered by the squirrels for winter.
I promise you the love
of the first song sung by the doves in spring.

You are the beauty of the first snowfall,
and the relief of the last.
You are the thaw, the buds on the trees.
You are the first golden leaf.
The sun may not shine as bright as your eyes;
the moon may never again light my night.
You are the soil in which I plant my roses,
you are the ground on which I plant my feet.

I know I shouldn’t assume
that you wrote that song about me
the way I shouldn’t complain
with all your lights around me.

And I know I shouldn’t worry
when you stay out too late
the way I shouldn’t nag
about the food on your plate

Well maybe this is different
is it ever all the same?
Well maybe you should leave
the same way that you came

When all we built has crumbled
and all we cooked has turn stale
I hope someone’s around
to listen to your tale.

It’s a tale of heartbreak
which would sing me to sleep.
We would awake in the morning
to all you can eat.

It’s a tale of heartbreak
that our children will enjoy.
A story with no title,
from the state of Illinois.

Striking future houses
with future lighting bolts.
Tickling future feet
with future feathers.
Winding
and turning
and stretching
and dreaming
We are the youth.
Haunting.
Future.
Nightmares.

The rain falls slow the air is cloudy
You don't have a care in the world.
The lights are dim the fire's burning
We're perfect alone in this room.
The snow is deep the wind is nippy
You bitch and you cry and you mope.
Your toes are cold your tears are frozen
I just want you to go home.
It's steamy and sweaty and sticky
But we don't seem to mind.
Get me a little more alcohol
And I think we'll be just fine.
The air is crisp the colours are rich
We're holding hands in the park.
I guess we've had some ups and downs
But I love you with all of my heart.

All these poems are nothing.
There's no feeling or emotions.
Merely fancy words strung together to form a pretty sentence.
Where is my heart
It ran away with my soul.
And there is nothing left to do but wait and grow old.
So if you take me there I think we'll be okay
But if we wait, just wait a little longer
I'll never go away.

I sleep alone but I’m not crying
My palms are sweaty but we’re still trying
My clothes are wet and your hair is drying
When we kiss I feel like flying
You begin to leave, I feel like dying
You whisper I “I love you”
I know you’re lying.

I have a poem written in my notebook,
but I think it can wait.
Because, at this moment,
I have something else to say.
Faggot Sick because of the Randy Mumble
Take me to the hopsital, unbury me from the Rubble.
I think this is sounding lame,
but I'm a cliché; it's my claim to fame.
Not fame, per sé, I don't like the lime light.
But behind the scenes, and of course the clubs at night.
This poem isn't very good.
It's more like a diary entry,
than a piece of poetry.
I think the one in my notebook is better.

To be stuck fixated on one line
In your head in your hands on your feet
To wear just a word on your shoulder
When you talk when you laugh when you breathe.

Forgive my sweat
Forget my tears
I’m forging the blood
And fulfilling your fears

I poured my heart into your pages and you ripped it all to shreds.
And when you left I was lonely and I cried and the snowman we made smiled at me through the window. And then we kissed for the last time and I gave you my soul for you to keep.
For you to remember.
And I tried to count the days but the calendar turned red.
And it's been so long and I'm angry and the snowman we made lost his hat. And he melted and I froze and when you came back it was spring and we kissed and you brought me your heart and you gave me my soul.
And I melted.
You poured you heart into my pages and the calendar turned red.

Blood on my hands
Regret stains my teeth
Your bones
My ghost
The sheets

Your breath on my skin
lingers a little longer.
Your hand on my waist
makes me feel stronger.
And I love the way you flip you hair.
You're such a charmer.
And I love the way you squint your eyes
when you're not wearing your glasses.
But I hate your armour.