Poems aren't written,
they're found,
Somewhere in your head the words are waiting,
They're sprawled across the floor,
You just need to pick them up,
Make a path with them,
Let your path guide observers,
And if you can't write,
Walk down somebody's else's path first,

Sometimes
It's really lonely knowing;
"And other times?"
It's really lonely not knowing.
Like knowing I'm not perfect
and yet still wondering why you're not answering.

You know why.

Maybe so do I.

I love it when I can feel you watching me

I love it
when I turn towards you to tell you a joke
and find you
already grinning at me

I love knowing that you like me

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

Suffocating
You feel defeated by your own thoughts
taken control of
everything in your mind
has just become dominating over you
your storybook has been opened
leaving you to feel exposed
all of your worst emotions are hitting all at once
you're numb inside
but you've been set aflame on the out
you can't feel mentally
but physically you can feel
the flames licking at your body
taunting you
torturing you
until they engulf you completely
leaving behind the ashes of your former self

Can I ask something of you?
Just a small favor
I want you to take a knife, and cut me.
Allow me bleed out all my insecurities.
Drain me of who I am
in chance that I’ll become who I once used to be.  
Extract my flaws and allow me to shed this ugly image.
Guide me towards who I want to be.
Help me
Renew me.
Please just save me.
Can you do that for me?

In democracy we breathe in
life-saving oxygen
in dictatorship
in carbon dioxide's poison