Your skin is cotton soft
And your lips is jellybeans

you wander
through my body
like a child
with a pack
of matches

There are nights the gaunt moon
pretends to be thunder
to enrapture the hell heavy heart  
but tonight, she sings not
sweet silence asunder  
no light from her lips shall depart

I'm pretty sure everything I say
is just a quiet cry for help.
I express my joy, a smile on my face—
but if you read between the lines,
you'll see me melt.

I mask my pity in beautiful words,
my word *****—
strung into sonnets,
and called art.

I beg them to read,
to open their eyes and see,

to hear at my pleas—
look at me, and weep.

But I'm a pathetic poet,
I yearn to be understood.
Yet, they only read my work,
and call it good.