I got my first comment and repost on one of my poems
I do not know why I cried
thank you for showing appreciation
it is the first time my tears actually hugged me instead of stinging.

There's no such thing as "love isn't real"
love is inevitable.
So as I ride the wave of resentment
and dip myself in the ocean of fluctuations
I still nurture my love for you

respecting your decision
disrespects
the affection in my heart
the affection that has already made its way through my bloodstream
giving me that sense of high

the love that has already infiltrated my lungs and stole my breath away
i do not wish to press charges.

Love is inevitable but heartbreak is a privilege and to grow from it is the gift.

I'll continue to use my words to light up the rest of the world.

As it does people's eyes when I speak.

Preach.

Talk.

Because emotions I find stronger than words,

Hold comfort behind the stiffness of the letters.

My words have no movement, my feelings linger on the pages.

But they do not waltz or cheer.

Yet yearn to escape me and the blank lined cage.

When someone asks what my biggest fear is
but I cannot tell them it’s me being 32 and still writing
about you
so I just tell them the “dark.”

I don't want to die
I just need something to make me feel alive.

"I use my telescope at night, won't be for stars, instead I hope that I can love you from afar" -mts

And that's okay but,
i'll never admit this to you so I'll say it here,
where I know you won't see it.
I miss you.
Why do I deny myself the chance to go after
the love I deserve?

I’m a human library.
My heart is single page with one bleeding word.
An empty carcass pervaded by nothing but
shelves and books.
Cut me in half, letters shall pour out.
Calligrams in my fingertips.
My eyes spell a p o l o g e t i c, in advance to the librarian tasked with decoding my being,
Death by literature, cursive written fate.
I’m a human library.
My brain misspells the word love on purpose
It always only finds the characters that spell your name,
as if it was the only way I was taught.
I used my fingers to write memories in every
system I could comprehend.
I understood what it meant to be a library.
A walking poem.
A talking blue ink pen.
I have touched every pain-cured wall
in this museum,
so ask me anything about him, the pages to my mind will unfold
and you will be filled with the same knowledge
As that of a librarian that used to work in a morgue.

And if your eyes were daisies
I’d drift off into a dream like state,
staring in hopes of blooming a new world in your gaze, off the reflection of mine.