Liking you...
Is like liking acid;
I know it'll burn me,
But I can't help but pour it on my skin.

Liking you...
Is like liking leaves;
It's there for one season,
But gone for the next.

Liking you...
Is like chasing the winds;
You know you can try to follow,
But there is no way of keeping up.

Liking you...
Is like liking colors;
It has many shades with so many layers,
To peel back and watch as beauty emerges.

Liking you...
Is like running into flames;
You know you'll come out burnt,
But you also know you need the heat it provides.

Liking you....
Is all so different,
But also familiar.

Liking you...
Can not be described using all the words and phrases in the English language;
It is something new and old,
Something scary and bold,
Something that can not be untold.

The war between the mind and the heart,
Is one a ****** fight,
Where soldiers are lost,
And dignity is stolen.

Whoever comes out triumphant,
Slathered in the opponent's failure,
Reveals our deepest-rooted canals of fear and needs.

If the heart makes its way out,
Limply and broken,
We know of our need to be loved for,
Or of our raging wanting to help others.

If the mind wins this round,
Fail-proof and fueled with logic,
We recognize our trepidation of seeming weak,
Or of our phobia of getting hurt.

So the next time your mind and heart brawl for the spotlight,
Shine a little bit on both,
Because light in great amounts can shatter all beauty.

Stars:
.
white specs
.
dimpled into the
.
spilt black ink
.
that stretches on into
.
infinite lengths
.

I broke a little more today,
So here I am,
Writing poems,
Trying to fix the damaged.

Ice melts,
It almost always happens.

Did you catch that?
The uncertainty in-between the written words.
Adding 'almost' gives away the secret that ice only melts at a temperature of 0 degrees or higher.

You almost always love me,
Almost always care for me,
Almost always need me,
Almost always something.

I can't blame you for it, now can I?
Blame you for the lies that I made?
For all the rumors that I spread?
For all the hatred that people feel towards you?
For hating me?

No. I can't.
That is almost always your job.

There was someone who opened people,
Unraveled them to show the inner ugliness that they hide with their skin acting like masks;

Sometimes someone will show up that makes you shed your skin,
Opens you up to the harsh world;

The thing is without our masks,
We are turtles without shells,
And turtles without shells never survive,
They're hunted and feasted on;

After he makes you leave your skin,
He prey's on you,
As if you're not humans;

As if your a fish gasping for air,
Just waiting to be plucked off and eaten;

I asked someone to unravel me,
Thought it would make my body lighter,
I was wrong;

I asked him to unravel me,
So he did.

My loving mother loves me to pieces,
She tells herself that every minute, she tells me that every day,
But my loving mother lies,
She lies without meaning to;
She doesn't love me,
She loves the idea of me;

The idea of having a daughter of her own,
A smart one, who every grown up calls pretty and sweet;
But they lie too;
I'm not sweet anymore, I've long since turned sour,
And I'm most definitely not pretty, I'm average at the very best.

So I wonder, oh loving mother,
Why do you convince yourself that you love me?
Is it because I'm all you have left?
But you don't have me, my loving mother.
I gave myself away to depression long ago.

How would you know that anyways, loving mother?
Every time I show that side of me,
You get disappointed and a look of disgust crawls its way onto your face.

So I hide it,
Cry it away,
Instead I look as though I'm happy,
For you, loving mother.

I worry instead,
Like someone who has OCD,
Dwell over little things until the panic and pain hit like a shockwave and sends me flying;
You hate that too, loving mother,
Say that I'm acting, that I can and have to stop, that I'm faking it,
Oh how I wish I was, loving mother.

You also have the tendency of showing me off, loving mother,
Why is that?
I'm no prize to be won, no medal,
So why call me your daughter out in public when you could just avoid it?

I feel bad for you, loving mother,
So I show effort,
Try to look like less of a drab,
Try to sound less crabby,
Make it seem as though I'm happy.

But sometimes I break,
The bullying tends to make me do that,
And when that happens,
I could see the anger rise on your face.
I'm sorry for that, dear mother.

I'm sorry for that and many more:
For not saying I Love You back,
For not showing more emotion,
For being something that you have to fake-love,
For not doing better in life,
For making so many enemies when you have none,
For having to be a fraud around you,
For being me.

My loving mother loves me to pieces,
She tells herself that every minute, she tells me that every day,
But my loving mother lies,
She lies without meaning to;
She doesn't love me,
She loves the idea of me.

They say the magnificent poems are ones pained with emotion,
My emotions have been ****** out of me;
But does that make me a bad poet?
Or does it make me a hopeless person,
Whose wounds have been shut too tightly for anything to make its way in or out?

Wouldn’t writing down thoughts still be a form of expression,
Wouldn’t this be called a good poem just because of the lack of intensity in it?