Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?

I know you won't read this
Your eyes will meet my name and take on the role of ignoring
They will do their best to avoid its presence
And eventually it will be a skill done almost subconsciously,
Forgetting me

I know you won't respond
If I ask you what happened
If I were to wonder aloud what changed enough to make you do the same
I'm not quite sure you even know the answer
And I'm quite sure I'll never pose the question

I wonder how it is that no one ever told you not to love a writer
Or worse than that, pretend to
These word-wringing hands belong to a body with a heart made of glue
Attachment forms if you get too close,
I am telling you that you did

It's clear that no one ever taught you caution
To be careful with the girl who cares much more than she should,
Who will love you more than you ever asked for
You crossed a line written in red and the footprints are still there

I know you won't remember
The way your lips met my forehead when you said goodnight or how the same ones told me I was beautiful
Your hands formed craters in my back and now I don't know how to fill all of the empty
I am used to an excess of space,
Of vacant but this
Is just too much

I know you won't understand why it is that
People like me always let strangers inside
We open the door without looking through the peephole
And take in whatever the wind blows with open arms
It is a mistake I am not sorry for repeating
You were just one of many

I know you won't read this
I know you won't try to
You will probably see my name and move on the way I probably should have already
You will laugh at my vulnerability like being bare isn't something that takes strength
You will remember my thighs, the unsteadiness of my laugh, the freckle I pointed out above my cheek, my warmth
You will hear my voice in the title
You will see the word poetry and immediately say no thank you
And I will continue keeping the idea of you alive in a language you don't care to comprehend

I know you won't read this
I know you won't try to
But if you do,
Know more than anything else,
I didn't write this for you
I wrote it for myself.

Death is like this...
they call you annoying for the first time and you feel your throat tighten up as you slink into submission.
Do not let it get to you.
Death is like this...
they stop listening to you mid sentence and leave you with your eyes meeting the floor.
Please keep talking.
Death is like this...
they say you're ugly and you can feel your heart sink to the floor as your eyes well up with tears.
Their opinion is worthless anyway.
Death is like this...
your first breakup almost tears you at the very seams as you try to keep yourself together and keep your heart from pounding out of your chest.
Its ok if you're not alright.
Death is like this...
they say they love you through gritted teeth and eyes that wont meet yours.
Someone will mean it one day.
they say they love you and they mark another girl with their lips.
They were not worthy of you.
they say they love you and then they leave you.
They were too scared to take on responsibility.
they say they'll be there for you until its 3am and you're crying and sending them texts saying how everysinglething is coming back to you but they see you the next day and act as if they hadn't gotten the text.
Find someone who will.
the one you trust the most lies to you.
Give them one more chance.
Death is like this...
you're sitting in bed wondering what's the point of going to school when all you can see is empty eyes and fake smiles.
There is more beauty within a person than you can imagine.
you're sitting on the bathroom floor wondering where everything went wrong.
Remember to see all the small things going right.
you're sitting in the tub asking yourself how you got so weak.
Please stay strong.
Death is like this...
you gave them another chance but they didn't give you the time of day.
There will be someone that proves to you that "sorry" is more than a word.

But death can also be like this:
sitting on a bed at age 80 with the best memories of your life going by.
*Please remember that.

When was the last time you heard silence?
When was the last time nothing sounded like everything?
When was the last time you could hear the sadness in silence, or the comfort in it?
Tell me, when was the last time you felt it in the air, heavy and light and looming and drifting at the same time?
Tell me, when was the last time you knew that the silence after "I'm ok," shouted "that's a lie"?
Or when the silence after "I'm alright," made you feel secure?

**Now tell me, when was the last time silence was ever really silent?

skin against skin in the purest way
i want to feel your hands on my face when you lean in to kiss me
and i want to feel your arms against mine when we hug and hold hands
and those brief fleeting moments when we do are not enough
if i could hold you in my arms for the day i swear i would and i finally understand why people invented cuddling
and no matter what you do or how you look,
you're just so intoxicating and beautiful
and even in a strangers perspective i bet they'd say the same
its like you're made out of ******* because you're so addicting but i can't give in because there's a sign you made that says "for recreational use only"

and I wonder if anyone else has thought what I've written about you,
because you aren't just the stars;
you're the sun and the moon too.

You think about death as if its when youre in your 90's, as if its in the far away future;
but it could be right around the corner and the sad fact is that we're not bulletproof.