It takes a year,
for the pain to leave my veins,
for the memories of you to fade,
for the cuts in my soul to heal,
for the rhythm of my heart to change when I’m around you,
to forget your touch on my mind,
to forgive the universe for meeting you,
to live life like you and me had never happened.

I kept chasing
you, as if
you were
a distant dream.
But dreams
are not always
dreams.
Sometimes, we have
nightmares too.

I would write you a poem
     about the stars and the moon
I would write you a poem
     about me dying soon.
I would write you a poem
     about my love everlasting
I would write you a poem
     about cymbals crashing.
I would write you a poem
     about how I want you so
but I can't write you a poem
     when you don't let me grow.

First level was simple denial,
I argued with myself for awhile,
counted each and every bathroom tile
while I waited until sedated so that I could smile.

I felt the anger twinge inside myself,
I cursed all the time spent seeking wealth,
and bathed in loathing for my careless lack of health,
and my inability to ever ask for much needed help.

They say no one is ever ready to die
and there's always regrets when you go,
but when my number's up I won't try
I won't fight; I'll have no punches to throw.
Five stages and seven hells,
turn the pages and hope it sells.

Next was bargaining but I had nothing to give,
no reason to be here, no reason left to live,
but I took my chance on a lie a and fib,
and offered up my heart along with a shred of rib.

Every layer always gets warmer,
until it surely burns your skin,
you'll find the next is worse than the former,
is this the punishment for sin?

They say no one is ever ready to die
and there's always regrets when you go,
but to say life is short would be a lie,
'cause some of us just feel it's too slow.
Five stages and seven hells,
open the cages and ring the bells.

Depression walked in like an old friend,
it was no big change, there was no letter to send.
I realized I was defective with no chance to mend,
my spine officially broken even though I didn't bend.

Then acceptance finally washed over me,
with a conclusion some things are just not meant to be,
I didn't bow my head or fall on one knee,
words can't describe that feeling of being free.

They say no one is ever ready to die
and there's always regrets when you go,
I hope to find a comfortable home in the sky,
or atleast in soil for something else to grow.
Five stages and seven hells,
I'll live through the ages, constantly shedding my shells.

When they say it was her fault,
They mean it like when you lock your keys in the car,
Or when you sleep through an important meeting,
Or when you forget the birthday of someone close.
Like a simple mistake of HERS could somehow explain what HE did.

They say it like they can understand it,
But she should have known better.
She should have checked her pockets for the keys, and set another alarm, checked the calendar one more time.
Like maybe then she wouldn’t have been there, maybe then she wouldn’t have seemed like she wanted it, maybe then he would have stopped.

But they, those people who NEVER lock their keys in the car, or sleep through an alarm,
They’ve never been on the other end of the phone.
You don’t need to see the tears
Because you can all but hear them strike the ground,
And you don’t need to see her face
Because no Greek chorus could ever portray fear the way breathless sobs do.
They’ve never had to say “It’s going to be okay”
Knowing full well it won’t.
That it may never be.
And they’ve never felt the type of hatred
That only comes from one thing:
Knowing, somehow, deep in your heart
That you would **** to stop this
From ever happening again.
Die, if it meant
That it wouldn’t have happened to her.

They sit back and blame,
Like they’re too afraid
Of what it would mean if it wasn’t
Some flaw in her that caused this,
But a flaw in him,
Maybe a flaw in themselves.

But if they knew what it was like
To be holding her
In arms that can’t possibly
Say safety enough
To make her believe it, again,
Wanting her world to be beautiful,
Like it was before.
Searching for words
Something, anything, to say.
Finding nothing.
If they knew what that silence was like,
They’d be silent now.

This is not a love poem
this is an I love you do you love me like
I love you poem
do you know me like
you think you do poem
this is a would you be disappointed
if you did poem
an I have been feeling the chilling of the air
and I cant tell if it is just the fault of the season
or if you, too, are cooling
whatever heat you had for me
browning and falling and
crumbling between my fingers
like the leaves of these oak trees
in november poem
a what would I need to do to keep us warm poem
and this is also
an I may be completely mistaken poem
an it was seventy degrees today poem
this is a show me I am completely mistaken poem