You cannot tell her she's beautiful,
You cannot tell her you love her,
You cannot tell her she's your world
When she's at her best moments.

You may only tell her those things,
If you're ready for her to have those off days,
If you're ready for her to not always wear makeup,
If you're ready to deal with her mood swings,
If you're ready for her to be clingey some days and distant others,

You cannot tell her any of the pretty little comments,
Unless you can handle her
Alone at two A.M.
As she's struggling with life,
And wondering why

She is not enough to win her own internal battles

My hundredth poem
On this website
I don't know what
To write tonight
.....
Perhaps something
I've never done before
A ****** fantasy
A victory roar

I don't feel like victory
Is on my side
I know I've no speciality
I've got no pride

I'm nothing special
Just another drone
No great ideas
To call my own

Just another no one
Nothing unique
Another boring no one
Nothing you'd want to keep

I know I'm nothing
No reason to stay alive
A suicide in waiting
No reason to stay alive

But I know I want to write
It's the thing that keeps me awake at night
I know there is nothing left for me
A writer is the only thing I want to be

So let me write, let me create
Now, before it is too late
All I want to do is make people think
Give them ideas, or make​ them drink

What is there left for me to do?
What is there left for me to say to you?

losing you was like
a novel ending in the middle
of a sentence,

like thinking an extra step
was there in front of you
in the dark.

like falling
over and
over and
over again.