they say the creases on my forehead
poking out under my curly hair
are frown lines
that signify anger
but i don't think of them
as frown lines
because they're at their deepest
when i'm smiling
no, they're more like life lines
or souvenirs
from the time you called me beautiful
in the middle of november
yes, i remember
i hope by the time i'm eighty
i'm covered in love letter wrinkles
please, come age me gracefully
i wanna wash my feet
in your bloodstream
maybe that's a little weird
i'm scared of telling you how i feel
but at four in the morning
under my sheets
you ******* clean
you fold me
like the most beautiful constellations
i wanna be your north star
look to me for direction
i have no sense of direction
but my heart is so big
you can see me from space
like an egyptian pyramid
bury yourself
in my chambers
every time i buried you
i was really burying seeds
you always
grow back
to
me.

I know it hurts them
I can tell that in their eyes
there is no hope
and they move on
because their tired of trying:
It hurts me too.

I am selfish
But I feel for you
in a world such as ours we need to be
in this world you are alone
and you’ll leave it the same way

I do not live in riches but get everything I want,
yet I find myself so unhappy.
They say money cant buy you happiness
Yet talk of the lottery is constant.
I have had a life full of vacant hearts,
selflessness,
deceit
a house that never felt like a home.

Something all the material goods in the world
cannot take back.
Showered with gifts to cover up this dingy past
but it will forever shadow
because I have never stepped on grass as green
as those who are willing to let go.  

I fear being vulnerable
emotionally attatched or loved.
I long for it as any human
with a beating heart shall
but it is far from here.
You never know what happens
behind these closed doors.
Something I wont let go

Human hearts are full of;
  golden sunflowers
  negative space
  sunken ships
  empty wine glasses
  sleepless nights
  deceased relatives
  cobwebs
  empty promises
  unshared secrets
  regrets

and the fingerprints of those
                                          who
                                            have
                                              broken
                                                *them.

After smoking my first pack
Of cigarettes
The novelty wore off pretty quick.
It didn’t feel cool anymore,
Didn’t make me feel important.
The cigarette was just something
To stick between my fingers,
**** between my lips,
Inhale and feel something
In my lungs.
A prop.
It was just a stick
With a red, smoldering ****,
A piece of tobacco
To play with before the ember
Ate way down to the filter
And singed my fingertips.

Now, I think I light up
Because the smoke is so
******* enticing.
It’s beautiful,
A kinesthetic work of art
like a ballet,
The way those silver
Tendrils curl so languidly
From the tip into the air,
So graceful, so smooth.
When I smoke
I can’t help but to imagine
I’m watching a group of dancers.

And I think I light up
Because there’s nothing better to do
Half the time and at least
It flouts the boredom
for a few minutes or so,
At least it interrupts the
Relentless monotony of Life.
Kurt Vonnegut mentioned
Something about smoking
Being a noble form of suicide-

Well, so it goes.