Do you,
think of,
me,
the way,
I,
think of,
you?
Because,
truth is,
I,
really don’t.
When the news says,
someone’s dead,
I look for,
your name,
instead.
Is that,
bad?
Possibly,
just sad?
It probably is,
but truth is,
I don’t care.
The scars you left,
wont wither,
until you taste,
the poison you,
hypocritically,
made for me.
Do you,
think of,
me,
the way,
I,
think of,
you?
Probably,
not.

I know,
it’s been,
some time.
I just wanted,
to write,
to see how,
you’ve been.
How’s the weather,
is the sun,
shining,
and the moon,
glowing?
Have you become,
the star,
you always,
hoped for?
Maybe you,
finally learned,
how to keep,
afloat,
and your head,
out of the clouds.
I hope this letter,
finds you well,
and maybe someday,
you’ll find,
your own way,
home.
Love,
Me.

Walking on walls,
dancing on the ceiling,
the room is spinning,
I’m going through,
the motions.
Playlist on shuffle,
but I don’t like this song,
or this one,
this one,
and that one too.
My tongue is twisted,
and my throat is choking,
I’m going through the motions,
I don’t wanna,
go through the motions.
I’m getting sick,
it just won’t stick,
I forgot the words,
someone hit reverse,
I don’t wanna,
go through the motions.
My mind is slipping,
my feet,
tripping,
I forgot how to,
go through the motions.
I overcompensate,
say things I shouldn’t say,
I shoot,
he scores,
I’m tired of going,
through the motions.
I jump head first,
hold my breath,
this is my chance,
I’m not going,
through the motions.

Up and down,
like a red rubber,
ball.
Yes,
you stick,
like a fly,
on the wall.
You buzz,
my ears,
and land,
on my nose.
I swat,
I zap,
but your,
persistence,
pays off.

You can’t cry,
when you’re already,
beneath,
the surface.
For fear that,
you might drown,
your mouth stays shut,
there is no scream,
under the ocean.
It’s pointless,
worthless,
to let,
tears fall.
The water,
can’t taste,
more like,
the salt lines,
on your cheeks.
Is it empty,
to be so full,
you’re bursting,
at the seams?
Just a sunken,
ship,
at the,
bottom,
of the,
ocean.

Her skin tastes,
that of stars,
and her hair,
has the scent,
of lilacs,
and driftwood,
tainted by,
morningdew.
I can’t help,
but stop,
and stare for,
just a few.

There’s a tornado,
in my throat,
and I,
can’t seem,
to get the words,
out of,
the pit,
in my stomach.
I’m choking,
on letters,
that make words,
never heard.