there are two types of sadness

there’s the kind of sadness
we ignore and
try to get rid of it
by finding new things to do
or we find someone to talk to
by blatantly avoiding any type of conversation
about feeling sad
about having any feelings at all
and then there’s that kind of sadness
that takes over
and it consumes any activity we do
we know it’s there
and there’s no possible way to avoid it
so we feed it exactly what it wants
it craves the sad music
it craves the isolation
it craves the anxiousness
and the sadness comes storming in
it has no manners
here we are calling sadness, an “it”
when all it is
is a feeling
that most people
call home

Red were the roses, the ones I left on your casket,
Orange were the leaves, the ones in your tree,
Yellow were the bruises, the ones that covered you head-to-toe,
Green were the stains, the ones left on the hems of your jeans,
Blue were your lips, the day you were found in your noose,
Indigo was the night sky, that night that you died,
Violet was that bruise, the one you wore around your neck

I would write to you
if you would reply to me
But if they ever saw these letters
then who would I be writing to?

I write a page at a time
only ever staring blanky a few moments
and then picking up the pencil
and letting my hand glide over paper,
But who am I writing to?

Am I writing to myself
or am I writing to my fallen dreams,
my fading memories
of a time I once longed for,
but can never reach.

Am I writing to the person I wish I was?
This person is an imposter
a fake; an intruder
whose sole purpose is to let them never
see the real me.
So they only know the perfectly flawed,
but never enough to take action.

I think I write to both,
a desperate cry for someone to heal me
with their fingertips drying my tears in the night
after another bitter fight that leaves me hollow
and lets me fade away into restless sleep
as my tears leave trails on my cheeks.

I love every single thing about you

The way you smile,
The way your hair drips down onto your shoulders,
The way you are fearless,
The way you love

I wish you saw yourself as I see you

I write in pencil
so my thoughts remain temporary

Rubbed out
erased
never existed

And I never confronted their concrete weight
as I sweep the rubbery remains of anxiety with my bleeding fingers

Well let me pour
my heavy fears onto a page
and maybe one day
lead will turn to ink