I'm losing pieces from me
And I'm suffering.
I can't get them back
I can't remember.
Are all the happy memories I made,
Just a waste?
I won't be able to remember them anyway.

on the sundae
the foam in the beer
she’s Friday
not Monday
the front –
not the rear

She’s a holiday
the intermission
from a prosaic play
the first edition
the needle
in the hay

She’s a rainbow
bridge over the sky
not December
she’s July
she’s the sun
not the wind
she's the plum
in the pudding

when you sleep it's like you never cried,

breathing soft and steady, wet cheeks dried.



when you sleep it's like you never lost,

boundaries weren't broken and lines weren't crossed.



when you sleep it's like you're still there,

and you still smile and you still care.



when you sleep you look young as I,

no crease in your brow and no old worn sigh.



and so if sleep is death just being shy,

is it still so wrong,

to wish

to die?

feelings
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are you sure?

[yes]

When I was a child,
I was taught poetry wasn't mild,
It was deep as the sea,
And it seemed truly unachievable for me.
I was taught poetry had to rhyme,
Every single line, every single time.
So poetry seemed out of my reach,
Like chasing a seagull down a beach,
Jumping ever so slightly away,
Or soaring into the sunny day.

So I never thrived for what I thought would,
No, Could
Never be.

I guess now I'm fixing the mistakes of past me.

Now there were two of them
Separated between thousands
of read texts and timely
chats touched by sound
but not skin  
Awake in the others sleeping
Sleeping in the others awake  
Restless as they wait
Restless as they wait

He asks me to open up
and so I do.

My legs,
my mouth,
my skin.

I offer up bits and pieces
of my flesh but
never myself.

And if he chews me to shreds,
I only hope that he likes the taste
of a girl half-dead in his bed.

your name is
forbidden in
my mouth
or in my heart
because when
i think about
you;

i'll cry a little more,
hurt a little stronger
love a little softer
because you no longer
make me feel sober

i'm drunk on the
memory of you

Introverts aren't really loners: 
     
They are busy socializing with   
their innumerable friends,     
called 
  
Thoughts...

If you could read my mind,
You’d see a thousand papers
Filled with broken poetries
And deadbeat proses
Full of woeful verses
With mournful pieces
Of unfinished stories
That are yet to be written
And failed to be spoken;
If you could read my mind,
You’d hear horrible screams
And earsplitting weeps
From shattered dreams,
Kept in a nasty notepad,
Scribbled on a bed
Of bloodstained words,
Ringing in my head.
If you could read my mind,
You’d see the shadows
That lurk within me;
You’d hear the bellows,
Screeching the words
“I’m tired,”
“I’m a failure,”
“I’m stupid –”
I know it sounds stupid,
It’s pathetically foolish
And seems like *******.
If you could read my mind,
You’d feel the tears
I had ever failed to cry;
You’d see the people
That make the weak weaker;
You’d see the monsters
That consume my head;
You’d hear the hollers
That failed to be freed;
You’d see the heart
That still bleeds and bleeds.
If you could read my mind,
You’d see the face
I’ve failed to show back then,
The face I’ve faked back then.
If you could read my mind,
You’d see a character
I had ever failed to become
If you could read my mind,
You’d be able to read
A book you never wished
To touch and read,
But sometimes I still wish
Someone could read my mind.

you point out the moon

but your fingers are begemmed

i don’t notice it

I love him
I tell myself
I know that
We will be together forever
I don’t believe that
We could be separated
My thoughts tell me that
He’s the love of my life
Sometimes my heart lies and says
I could live an eternity
Without him
Like my friends say
“We’re perfect for each other”
And you can’t tell me
He’s not the one.

Now read from bottom to top.

Break my bones;
cut my throat.
Pull me open,
learn the ropes.

Breath me in;
taste the fear.
Shank my skin;
stand and cheer.

Kick my head;
let me bleed.
Unbolt my veins;
enjoy the read.

Gouge my eyes;
punch my face.
Wrap me up
in your embrace.

the wave measures itself against all other waves,
and because of this system of measurement, it is
unable to sense that the waves are really the Sea,
and thus the wave talks to the other waves about
there being somewhere out there a deep Sea.

                                                           ­       ^
                                                        ­           ^
                                                               ­       ^

Little girl picks up the chalk
Writes her heart
Draws her mind
Cries it all away
Before they can see

If we spent less time complaining about the weather,
we could of already brought a short and sweater.

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)

Nothing's forever
and hardships aren't an exception.
When you are too heavy to fly,
remember all you can do is retry.
What's the problem if people don't believe in you
Make it your reason to break through.
It's okay to be scared of your dream,
atleast you know that it is its extreme.
If you fail on the way,
take a break and mend yourself for the future day.
Never doubt your calibre and go back
cause you didn't come this far to pace back the track.
Keep fightin'
and one day you will find yourself flyin'

some                   I
     say                     call
           it's                   It        
                poetry.          oxygen.


I write, therefore I am.