I could not write lest there's a tragedy inside
but lately you've been invading everything I hide
I'm afraid of what it is to come for in the end it's always a ravage art
my walls afore that are high and strong are all now but a rubble
I stood helpless as he, with his keen mind and enthralling smile dances with my guarded heart
Who would not fall?
I could not help but fall.
I  anticipated for the pain but it never came at all
he looks like an angel, he feels like miracle
he touches like the devil, his kisses are feverish
I am lovesick.
hereafter I could write when my heart is blazing
when my whole being is illuminating and not dull from aching.

i told him “don’t look at me,
there’s nothing to look at.”
he went on about how beauty
can’t just be skipped over
& how i had his head spinning
like after a heavy night of drinking,
like he’s experiencing a hangover.

i told him “don’t touch me,
i know you’ll eventually leave me
& leave my body shaking from withdrawals…
shaking…
aching… to feel your touch again.”

i told him “don’t kiss me,
i don’t wanna get lost in your lips
& when our lips part, i’d probably have fallen in love .
i’ll probably stay awake in bed,
day dreaming of you… of us.”

i told him “don’t make love to me.
not even if i’m in the heat of the moment & i beg you to mount me
and enter my sweet sanctuary.
not even if i plead.”

i told him “don’t love me. leave me,
because you all leave eventually.
i don’t want your sweet nothings.
i don’t want your empty promises,
i don’t want your i-love-yous,
neither do i want to buy the dreams
you’ll so skillfully sell to me.
you’ll love me, i’ll love you back.
somehow i’ll end up loving more
& that’s a ****** fact.
somewhere between the first ‘i love you’ and the silence before it ends
will be me trying to make amends.”

i told him “don’t bother, just leave now.”
because that’s what they all do.
they love you,
& then
they leave you…

never fall in love with a boy who
speaks in lavender soliloquy and
smells like cigarettes and melancholy;
whose kisses leave you in nirvana and
whose flesh lays in some lovely façade;
for he is a poet, a philosopher, and a believer
whose mind will disappear into breathless purgatory
when you're not even looking
and by the time you'll find out
you'll already have lost him somewhere,
between wandering verbosity,
and ashen wordlessness

writing in blood is easy,
writing in tears is necessary,
but writing in smiles
is impossible,
it is taking a pen and closing your eyes
and drawing soft lines and shapes
and missing words to describe the inside
a happy poet is recognized
by an empty paper