You know, after meeting her it’s easy to understand why hurricanes are named after people, although I can’t say for certain if they name storms subsequently in her honor or out of pure lust. I really want to know what’s going on inside of her head. I can’t seem to stop thinking about her eyes. All storms have eyes, true, but hers seem to be calmer than the rest. I mean - so there she is, right? - the first time you see her, she doesn't notice you, yet you can’t help but understand. The way she reads books is like she’s memorizing scripture. She carries a sense of reverence with her I’ve only experienced when someone talks about God and I’ve been thinking about her eyes and cathedrals. I’ve been thinking about what it might be like to be her favorite hoodie. Her smile, whether it’s genuine or not, tears me in two and I am ******* afraid of her with lipstick on. I’m afraid that if I tell her I want to kiss her she will think I mean kiss her and not “kiss her”. I wonder if anyone’s ever tried touching her soul. Marble statues know her name, and not for the reasons you’d expect. I’m thinking about her eyes again. I want to know what’s going through her mind when I look at her and see her eyes. After meeting her, it’s easy to understand why my mom warned me about addictions. The kind of addictions where the thought of bare skin and bed sheets leaves you in a cold sweat. The innocent idea of her lips has you craving a feeling that doesn’t exist. Where you’d give every poem you had for just a drop of her eyes. After her, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to look at the stars the same way without wondering how their shine always falls short of reaching the space between her skin and mine. She’s a work of art cast in skin and bone. Eyes. She’s the calm during the storm. I once read somewhere that the girls you read about in books don't exist, but as I watch the way she turns pages like shes being reborn, or the way she walks in late to class sometimes and the whole world seems to notice as the gravity of the room shifts all its attention to her, it’s hard to believe she wasn’t written perfectly to play her part. The way she baptized the asphalt with my car left me reborn at the other end of the steering wheel. You know, she once told me, “It’s crazy to me to think about how most people don't have these problems.” And all I could think about was how to a blank canvas, paint must seem like scars, yet to the artist it’s a release. Eyes, but this time they’re closed. The whole storm, passing around us in a constant story line at 100 miles per hour, and here she is, just as lost as everyone else. Sometimes I fear that my hands might break her, but then I remember that a storm lives beneath her skin and end up thinking about her eyes.

It’s what we all strive to be, the idea of being enough. Maybe not forever, but just for a moment. A moment long enough to make everything else seem to fade, but this too will pass and you’ll find yourself wondering why you weren't enough. What flaw made them leave?

I want to tell you something,
But before I start I want to make one thing very clear;
This isn't a confession.

There was a time when I started helping others
Because I had learned how to help myself first.
There was a time when I stole the sun
Not knowing that something so beautiful could burn me.
There was a time when I pretended I was sick with poetry.
I heaved and convulsed ink out onto countless pages,
And to this day I blame other people for my pain.

But in truth…
I never learned how to help myself.
And it wasn't the sun I stole,
But with the way her eyes shined
It was easy to get the two confused,
And my God did she burn me.
I’m not really sick with poetry either.
These poems are just my muse,
And even if I know it’s not true,
I still blame others for all of my pain.

There are times when I help others
even though I can’t help myself.
There are times when the sun is the last thing I want to see,
Even on my darkest days.
There are times that I get so sick with the idea of poetry.
It’s hard to write something and not fall victim to it.
And there are times that I blame others for my pain,
Even if I’m the one who chose to get hurt by them.

And I want to make one thing very clear,
That even if all of my suffering is my fault,
Even if I’m the one who did this to myself,
I’m the one who picked up the pen.
But this isn't a confession.

I've found an infinity between comparison and reality;
A gap between everything and nothingness,
A dream between being asleep and lucid,
A time between now and forever.

I've found an escape between chaos and logic;
A note between two keys,
A word between two sentences,
A color between two hues.

I've found a void deprived of emptiness;
A space between comfort and accord,
A spark between flames,
A forest between the soil and seeds.

I've found a sanctuary between time and erosion;
A point between here and now,
A peace between me and everything,
A monument between decay and permanence.

I've found an Interim.

Sleep is why I'd rather lie
awake than realize I am I.
A mind inside a tethered lair.
A room sealed tight, taste the air.
So bold my thoughts say to me,
I need not speak, I write with ease.

I need not see, my eyes are bright.
My dreams are stale, my glare does bite
My ears so all that I can hear
Are the thoughts that grow inhaling fear
With this, a mouth that can and will
Devour hopes and leave me still.

I'll clasp my panicked thoughts together
My sense of touch is even better.
You know that I can barely tell
If this is real or life in hell.
So I'll try to sleep, with all my being.
As my brain is filled with agony...

The voices only quiet to a whimper,
They never fade, an arctic winter.
I beg of them most every night
While I lay awake and lose the fight.
Please, hold my head against the floor
Please let me sleep, forever more.

She made me feel the way a sunset colors the sky. Her flowing hair rolled over her shoulder blades like ocean waves cresting on the sandy shores of some forgotten paradise. The way she walked -or rather- the way she carried herself, was as if her every movement was conducted by the the wind itself. She was poetry and I was helpless to become a poet in her wake. But she was cold, Her heart was bone dry like a winter night and her motives made alcohol turn to ice. The curve of her hips perfectly replicated a trigger and I could think of no sweeter death than to have one of her bullets be that last thing to go through my mind. It was then I realized how a man could play Russian roulette. The way her lips pursed every time she saw me made me understand why men went to war. Her hands fit the curve of my neck like a noose and there was nothing I wanted to do but hang. Looking at her was staring at the sun and it wasn't until I met her that I understood what my mother meant when she told me not to touch a hot stove, because things that glow often burn us. Yet just like the hot stove, I failed to learn this until I tried.

Dear Poetry,

This isn't a love letter, but read it anyways.
How’ve you been?
Who've you been with?
Haven’t seen you for a few days.
And I really do hope that you've been doing good,
But I just thought I’d write you this because some things need to be understood.

I’m so caught up in your madness like magnets.
And I’m not happy with how things have been going lately between me and you.
You've been growing pretty distant and I refuse to lose you too.
So many fakes and liars have come and gone in and out of my life this year,
And I hate to have this fear, but I feel that you won’t be staying here.

Do you remember when we met? Since that first sleepless night you had my back,
But as of lately you’re just the reason I've been dressing in all black.
I’m committed to you, but you don’t seem that loyal to me.
So many kids recently have started rhyming.
And I’m not saying that I’m jealous, because truthfully I’m not.
It’s just that seeing you with all these other kids has got my stomach in a knot.
I’m not saying I don’t trust you, because really I do.
I’m kind of just torn because I've stayed so **** loyal to you.
But it’s whatever, go ahead and go where you will,
Those other kids won’t stop me from writing how I feel.
I wonder though, if I leave here will you even miss me?
I don’t think that you would, but I’ll trust you with my insecurities.

And I'm aware
That life, it isn't fair.
I've got nothing in return for the nights I've stayed up writing with you here.
And honestly, writing has confirmed all my fears.
It’s crazy how so much can change in just one year.
But for now, I think that’s all I have to say.
I’m not happy with where we are,
And I’m just hoping that you’ll stay.

Sincerely,

Kennedy Taylor.

Trapped.
Once Again.
Unable to talk.
Silent.

Panicked.
Once again.
Frozen in thought.
Mute.

Afraid.
Once again.
Gasping for air.
Incoherent.

Withdrawn.
Once again.
Crying for release.
Wordless.

Dear Poetry,

I never thought you’d be the one to cause me this much stress.
When we first started off I could have sworn you were the best.
You would help me ease my mind, and allow me to get away,
But now I’m staying up at night wondering if you're here to stay.
So I’m running off no sleep, panicked, wondering what to do,
And to be completely honest, I've been thinking of leaving you.

When it was all beginning, your beauty, it had me trapped,
And once we started talking, the conversation had me attached.
Now I’m addicted to you like *******, without you I can’t work my own brain.
When you’re with me it’s got me so sane, but once you leave I start going insane.
This back and forth has got me torn and I really don’t know what to do.
On one hand you've always been there, on the other, the problem is always you.

So what more do you want?
My options are near their end.
Do you want me to just keep writing?
Do you want me to just pretend?

We can pretend like we're in love.
We can pretend like the feelings are real.
But what if I really want to love you?
What if I really want to feel?

I heard you could change my life,
And to be honest you really did.
But now I’m wondering if it was for the better,
Or if I’m better of without this.

Understand me when I say that this letter isn't asking for our end.
I just want to make sure we’re on the same page, written with the same pen.
I wouldn't be here without you, and I think I might owe you my life,
But please just write me back if you feel that this relationship is right.

Sincerely,

Kennedy Taylor.

You are nothing
close to a poet,
but the way you walk
And
the way you smile,
it’s ******* poetry.

This isn't a poem,
It’s only a thought.
This isn't a poem,
My mind’s just starting to rot.

This isn't a poem,
Don’t read it like one.
This isn't a poem,
I just have no where to run.

This isn't a poem,
Please understand.
This isn't a poem,
I’m just another man.

This isn't a poem,
At least not to me.
This isn't a poem,
It’s just a place I can breath.

I want her to know that:
I just want to tell her off...
I want to get mad at her because I never did.
I want to be harsh with her and tell her the truth,
     not love her and protect her the way that I did.
I want to tell her how lucky she is that she's beautiful,
     because without her beauty she would have nothing.
I want to tell her how sick and manipulative she is.
I want to rip apart my ribs and show her my ruined heart,
     she ruined love for me.
I want to take back all the times I told her I loved her
     and all the things we did together.
I want every breath back that I spent complimenting her.
I want pain and I want solace.
I want her to know I don't miss her.
I want her to know I hope she fails at everything she does in life
     just to watch me succeed.
I want to show her how successful I can be without her.
I want to achieve everything she ever wanted in life,
     and disregard it.
I want to brag and make her sick every time she sees my writing
    quoted and shared online.
I want her to feel the uselessness and abandoned feeling she gave me.
I want her to cry and stay up every night because
     she can't sleep anymore.
I want revenge and I want bliss.
I want her to know how worthless she is to me
     because I loved her once.
And I know I won't ever have any of this,
But if she's worth anything at all...
      she's worth my one wish to have it all.