Im the one who goes without
Im made to fein
Im made to deal without
I give up what little i have for certain people
But dont i deserve something at all
Just a little something
Nothing big nothing too fancy
Just something
But i just hace everything taking away from me
No one seems to notice
Im the one going without

here
cloaked within the desolate,
merciless shadows of time
i cling to that which has held me
when the dark becomes darker
and the hours become longer
i clutch the only hope remotely viable
in this wretched isolation that follows me
not like a curse
but more a tortured friend
i dream in the pleasure of sleep
and scorn my first waking thought
encircle me now
your shade is my only salvation
here

i feel things intensely
and that's why i run away
that's why i tend to disappear

i'm afraid of how much i can feel
it's a little overwhelming
and a lot scary

especially when you're unsure
of how the other person even feels
while you are already drowning

i guess this is my story
because it has been happening
over and over again to me

i fall in love and trip over myself
only to realize no one is on the other side
to even catch me

all illusions
all dreams

but maybe one day someone will be there
maybe one day it will all be real
and i won't be tripping over nothing
and i won't have a reason to fear.

we take long drags
of each others skin,
the addiction comes
in phases.
day 1: my lungs sigh, weary,
air does not satisfy,
day 2: we're chasing
lifelines, that are rusted
and in vain
day 5: bad habits are
hard to break, beg, at the
holy altar of our mistakes
day 8: hands desperate,
clammy, unfurl
like belladonna palms.
day 9: i hope your
vocal cords strain, that
the only word you can
bear to say is 'stay'.
day 11: last breaths
muffled in the
graveyard of a kiss.
day 17: darling, i'm
losing track of time
day 28: i'm finding it
a little bit hard to quit.

That is what poets do

They romanticize pain
They idealize the torment

There is solace in darkness
Which they craft to enlighten;

Lure with words
The forlorn is adorned
Guilt is charming
Mistakes rewarding

That part that is revolting
The best line in their poems.

That is what poets do

They embellish heartbreak
To cement the heartache

But as soon as they leave their paper
and beautiful words captivated readers

Life can no longer render
The adequate metaphor
Agony is agony;

There is no substitute for it.