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god am i scared

but amidst the touches that linger longer and longer

and the butterflies in my stomach when i come up to kiss you

amidst the way that you say i love you and really mean it

and the way i rush back to you after every event like a butterfly to the light

i realise

that letting you love me

was the best decision i've ever made
the way you say my name has become my favourite melody

my voice saying yours becomes the chorus
I love you
it feels like it’s been forever
but then on days like this I’m reminded
of the inevitable colour of depression
of the way summer’s stormy clouds form over the mountain
in an all-too-familiar grey
of the way the leaves,
tired from the heaviness of hanging on to branches all summer
finally let go
isn’t there something so beautiful though
about how each dying leaf
tries to make the grey of fall
all the more colourful?
how falling isn’t the failure
but the most beautiful part of the cycle?

I trudge forward bearing the heavy weight of all that fall brings
and knowing the inevitable grip winter holds onto my emotions
stepping on each of the leaves
Julia by Pavlov’s dog has been a big mood recently in this weather change
we're two matches burning together slowly

all i feel is warmth and light around me
even if i'm one day closer to dying
and it's beautiful
Your image is stuck in fragments in my mind like shattered glass, but this time it’s a vase that I wish didn’t have to break
we tell each other the things we want to hear because we're too afraid to hear the things we want to tell
and just like that the love story dies
creativity exists only in uncluttered spaces in the left corner of my mind reserved for falling in love, being in love, or being depressed

i've tried to write ten thousand times but i've only been left with a disappointment staring back at me, writing the same metaphor in about two hundred poems finding out ways i can be more creative but pushing away the melody of the keys because when you have assignment after assignment after assignment keys don't feel like comfort anymore

nothing can replace pen on paper but my notebook is running out of pages reserved explicitly for just me and if i get a chance to write down something usually it's a name staring back at me, identity undetermined, point zero on a map that has the whole world on it but somehow feels empty

my body has taken me to tons of countries, through plane rides and train rides and busses and trams, and somehow i still can't figure out how to find a route that best communicates my emotions

when the muse plays hide and seek i spend most of my time seeking and never finding, it spends most of its time sulking in the shadow of mental health never once thinking to come out enough to string just one line of thoughts

you can't make a poem from zgrjblksabg;saeibgsgkrg
writing is hard
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