You once had a blossoming rosebush.
Lush with periwinkle peonies, baby blue baby's-breath, crimson carnations.
You plucked a flower for me, a rose so beautifully breathtaking which you compared to my own flawed features in the most poetic prose.
I graciously accepted your gorgeous gift, careful that my fingers wouldn't graze the thorns which adorned the deep green stem.
I held it close, embracing your token of affection with a pounding heart full of humbly hesitant adoration.
But I picked apart the pieces, I skeptically played with the pretty petals. I analyzed their cajoling strokes of coaxing color until the flower wilted warily.
And when I asked you for another, your face flushed and your truth trembled.
You led me to your rosebush, which was now an utterly dull disappointment.
For I saw then that you had wasted away all of the flowers on girls just like me, destroying the beauty which had once flourished in that tempting rosebush, and now you had no more love to give me.

my dearest
apologies
that the recent poems plaguing my page
are nearly as much of a disappointment
as myself
**

Your presence is awfully comforting
Yet you leave me with shivers
tickling my spine
And goosebumps
prickling my skin.
You feel so near, right next to me,
But when I reach out
You disappear.

Your figure is just a silhouette,
maybe blue, brown, perhaps green or even grey,
could the eyes be that captivate me from miles away.
You still seem so close.

I'm full of emotions that make no sense, not even on a blank page
Full of ink splotches
and salty blue blotches.
When I wish to tell you how I feel, I mumble
Until all at once my jumbled words fumble
and fall into a pile at your feet.
Which you blankly stare at, before walking away.

You'd think there would be a number of how many times a heart could shatter
over petty things
Before it would learn to hold itself together longer,
to be stronger,
or at least you'd think that it wouldn't hurt as much when it falls apart again.

I thought people said that love could make you feel alive.
But being in love has only been an ocean full of waves which have crashed over me far too many times,
Until all my color has faded,
Washing away the childhood spark that once gleamed in my eyes.
Until all that's left is a shell of the girl I used to be,
A smile still drawn
on my blue lips
that were still waiting for your ghostly kiss.

But nobody sees my efforts, you don't hear my cries
that I muffle with "it's okay" and other shallow lies.
I know you ignore me
when you say you adore me
And I know I implore you,
when it's my bad I fell for you.
I'll continue to pontificate
on a dreadfully pathetic page
until I surely suffocate
in the mound of poems I create
which are riddled with your name.

But it's my fault.
For I fell in love with a ghost. Like I always do.
And he left me behind, like they always seem to.

My hand trembles with the weight of the quill pressed between my fingers,
Each stroke an ever so remarkable miracle.
For my strength falls weak as I strive to write even more.
Though the ink has long since dried up, and all I am left with are scratches on a blank page.
Perhaps the fault does not lie within the weary pen itself,
But instead with the unstable hand that holds it.