Never get too comfortable
In what you're in.
Everything can change before you're ready.
So I guess,
For what it's worth,
I sleep on the floor.
I'm lucky that you ruined me-
because everything important,
essentially means nothing.
I'm not ashamed of the way that my tongue bleeds
When I am escaping from anything
Especially the words I can not say
For fear of breaking and entering
And I can't apologize unless I am sorry
That I've told you the truth about all my fears
And the way I'm running from everything
That's ever meant something or anything to me
And I'm not sorry for being so right brained
When I over analyze your dreams
But I'm not sorry for being so left behind
When everything's so far out of reach
Yet I'm sorry for not being able
To grasp it
When the time is right
And I'm only a poet when under
This broken exterior of a person
When I am vulnerable and weak
Or my foundation is cracking
And I'm left in the basement of it
So in the end,
I'm just sorry I don't speak so poetically.
I learned more during a midnight spent being temporarily homeless than I have in four years filling in empty circles at the end of a rope.
The next time you take a step,
I urge you to look down.
You might be one of the people who only notices when they're the ones blending seamlessly with the cobblestone.
This is the last poem I write about you
So I suggest you read it until you find it hard to breathe.
This is the last poem I write for you
in hopes that you'll read and use it to find your way back to me.
This is the last mark I make on a clean white page that on the other side
reads your name.
There is a photo of you in the back of this notebook that I haven't looked at in a month.
There is a burning in my stomach and it's leading me to believe that I am eating me alive.
Every word I've said alone in the dark
was uttered in hopes that you would somehow hear me.
It's over and I'm out.
This is the last time.
This is no longer for you.
You are no longer my muse.
Funny how a photograph can pump blood
I only have one of you, it isn't mine
it sits here backlit
shared with all that would gladly drown in those mischief eyes.
Your smile, a moment of calm, a second of perfection caught, always brings my own.
There is no beauty like yours, no work of art has ever made me want to overflow with passion the way you do. I could write countless poems, a thousand odes to your dimples, a million sonnets to your curls, a billion lovesongs to your eyes to no avail. So I'll laugh at your jokes, and be a sturdy shoulder, a friend. I'll wish the best for you always, while your heart keeps my secret safe. Poets shouldn't fall in love with the unloved, there aren't enough words to describe the agony.
It was only until that time tonight that I realized
Sitting outside in the dark
Half-admiring the lack of visible stars
Staring somewhere into the middle distance
In the direction that I always imagined you would be
Letting the lights blur in and out of focus
I finally closed my eyes
And for the first time in three years
I wished for something that wasn't you.
I have no ill thoughts
Only lines drawn.
I have no ill thoughts.
Only lines drawn.