Today I'm a ghost,
the cold air whispers through window sills
and hot tea warms up my cup,
with a sip of mediocrity left in my mouth.

Today I'm a ghost,
the thoughts of you fade away
as imprints of blank space are what left remains.

Today I'm a ghost,
my skin pale white and my face numb,
I'm left with nothing.

Tomorrow your ghost leaves
and I can no longer be a ghost with you.
I'm not a ghost, I'm just alone.

If you aren't going to give me any time it's okay.
But don't act like you do
just to meet your preconceived ideas about friendship.

You might give me a compliment from time
and support me in what I do.
But then completely disregarding your promises
isn't okay with me.

So I’m going to find someone who
can give me as much as I can give them.
And for shame, I’m not yours
and your not mine.

The first time you kissed me, flowers bloomed;
From my heart unfurling, lilies, roses, fragile
things, so gentle and so new, so sickly
sweet, they clogged my veins with
scent, and wrapped their vines
around my heart.  I still feel
them now, slowly wilting
away to nothing, slowly
dying and decaying,
these little buds
of something
gone.

Like Debussy's arabesque we danced,
your feet too slow, and mine too fast,
in different times, yet
intertwined,
we cascaded like the notes
brushed by gentle fingers;

I should be working right now but I'm not,
a pupil beaming on the inside from her rebellion
all in the name of poetry.
Quite sad really...

But I like writing poetry regardless to work,
it's one thing that I can admit comes naturally.
Well I can admit it to myself but to others no way,
I'd like to seem complacent not arrogant.

So mid my rebellion I'll write with a smile,
not because I'm always happy,
I'll smile because today I'm content.

Why am I a joke to you?
No really, because my admiration seems to be undermined
and it’s not because you don’t care,
but that you’ve seen it before.

I’ve told you these feelings many a time
like a book you’ve re-read.
But the words have lost meaning,
my words are dissmissive.
And the whole story is good to you,
but now following the process
just seems completely pointless.

To you, I’m
dispensable.

If she is the moon,
The light of my night,
my life,
Then I am her ocean;
she directs my every ebb
and flow