A candle is never quite the same,
after it melts with the beauty of a flame.
Emanating such blazing warmth,
enchanting in its glimmering form.

It's just like intimacy,
being known in vulnerability.
Being held in warm embrace,
as they gently stroke your face.
Soft kisses planted on your cheeks.
And the moment your lips meet.

Certain things I wish I never felt..
For once they are felt,
they are never forgotten.

And I am never the same.

And here's how I see it:

We lay hand in hand
Until the dam far, far away
Cracks,

Until the blades of grass
Tickling your nose
Wither,

Until the clouds above
Rain inky substance like
Oceans,

And when the sun shines
Memories mellow on
Wavering waves waving
Willows in the wind,

Up to our nostrils,
Your eyes like the moon
Straining to see those last
Blades of grass curl in on themselves,

Here's how I see it:

**We drown.

The girl with hair pink as candy
Plays the violin in
The school bathroom
With a rusty bow,
And just before dawn in her bed
To calm her tempers
And soothe her demons to sleep,

For I suppose she figures
Between her and them,
One deserves to slumber
Peacefully.

There are people who cut themselves,
Some of these people are the most sane people I know.

There are people who burn themselves,
They have some of the brightest personality's I have seen.

Some of these people you may tell,
Go **** yourself.
It's all for attention.
Or maybe even,
Cut a little deeper, it's not like anyone cares.

But what you don't see is,
They are all ready battling a pain inside,
It's not something they can just up and hide.

It's almost as if there are demons inside,
Telling them the lies,
That there eyes are to far apart or,
Their thighs are twice their size.

These people were once happy,
They were once beautiful in there own eyes.

But now they have broken,
It's almost like their souls are shattered window panes.

But you don't understand is all they seem to feel is pain.

Pain is becoming like their middle name.

It's all they feel,
All they breath.

It's almost like every breathe they take,
It's almost like breathing acid.

But just remember some of them are,
The most sane.

My blood is boiling,
And coincidentally
The water for my tea
Is also boiling.
But I can't enjoy this tea.

I can't enjoy anything.
I used to be needed.
And I used to be taken care of.
And I used to be spoiled rotten
With your companionship.

And now I sit and look at the scars
We all used to share and compare,
On the inside and on our skin.
I want to say that I'm too old to make any new ones.

I'm studying real poets.

Shelley, Sandburg,
Frost, and Wordsworth.
Coleridge, Blake,
and William Butler Yeats.

Do you know why they're
considered real poets?

Because they made art,
not hashtag trends.
Wrote from Experience
with black quill pens.
Sure, they got high,
but wrote on instinct.
And The Road Not Taken doesn't
mean what you think.
They wrote about about life
and the world that they heard,
not ******* in the margins
of Microsoft Word.