no one loves me
but they claim they care
if they really did wouldn't they see

i am falling apart
fragile to the touch
yet they keep on pushing me

closer to the edge
and they think i can take more
so they push farther till i'm at the brink

it's like they know i can't swim
but they are going overboard
and they'll be suprised when i sink

I say "I’m somewhat of a poet or at least I like to write”
I tell her “I even have an account”
“Do you post under your real name?” She asks
“Hell no!”I quickly responded
“I used to write in middle school. I used to really enjoy it” She said
“But do you have an account?” I joke
Then we both laughed

Fingertips frozen,
Arms up my sleeve.
But I have to write this idea down.
My hands are already filled with ink.
Everything has to be gold these days.
Golden chain, Golden eyes, Golden soul, Golden ring.
Still want to be the one to speak her name as mine though.
It's cold outside,
But I'm colder.
You poor thing.

I sit here,
delusional, calm,
awaiting slumber,
between textbook pages.

Eyes hold me at gunpoint,
threatening to close,
now widen
with the promise of a new poem.

...

Because my poems are always depressed,
I tried to write something happy for you.
~
Depression returns.
~
Half of our converstations
Is laughter.
~
And I was figuring out,
If your laughter was a mask too sometimes.
~
And I broke through,
But it wasn't
~
Hapiness stayed.
~
I helped you write your first poem,
The motto:
~
Never give up,
Don't be sad.
~
And I wonder
If you'll ever
~
See trough the eye,
of a true poet.
~
And if you'll never,
Stay sad.
~
And if you'll ever,
Keep going

...

Baby, I've always been writing.
But you made me a poet.

why are all my words gloomy?
aren’t there moments that are silver?
perhaps it is they pass too quick
mistaken just as grey