sometimes
                                                       ­                         my
                                     ­ brain
                       doesn’t
                                                       ­     work

right
                                                ­                               and

                             my

                                              thoughts

     ­                                         scatter

               ­                                                    like
                               beads

                                     spilled
                               on
                                                              ­                 tile

floor

Before I met you
I thought that
poetry was just
a collection of words,
that music was just
a collection of sounds,
that art was just
a collection of
shapes, colours and stokes
that life was just
a series of
years, breaths and steps
Indeed, I see things differently now
Through you, I am reborn

I do try
not to be a bitter person;
bitter about the life I live,
the life I want to live,
and a life that slipped away.
I do my best not to write bitterly,
And it's true, I sometimes do.
I do my best not to be so bitter,
though I can and often am.
I wonder if it's in my DNA
or because of a life so grey
But **** it,
I do my best.

Why is it that broken people
confide in my words?
Is it because I’m broken too?
Are we shards from the same bottle?
Does it help when we fit into place?
You and I, a tragic jigsaw puzzle
Or when I put you back together?
I don’t know why it is,
All I know is that my words
bring a temporary relief
to myself and
to the broken people

You are a novel
gathering dust on my shelf
but not because I don’t want to read
but because I’m afraid
to turn the page,
afraid of how you’ll end

This is not a poem about ****** assault.

This is not a poem about you taking everything from me.

This is not a poem about you taking the little girl I was once and forcing her to see how terrible the world can truly be.

This is not a poem about you taking my 4.0 GPA and shoving it under your bed with the remnants of my underwear.

This is not a poem about you taking the comfort out of physical affection.

This is not a poem about you pretending not to hear me when I begged you to stop.

This is not a poem about me pretending to fall asleep so I could pretend like I didn't remember it happened again.

This is not a poem about you blaming the alcohol.

This is not a poem about you blaming me.

This is not a poem.

Wait... Don't leave, please; come back to me
I've been getting into drugs and other things
I am fearful for my own well being...
But these actions I am taking hold of
Keep my mind off from what's truly going on,
I'm not sure that I'll ever really stop...

What has life made of me?
Where has life taken me?

This body has never been mine, nor will this mind ever be.

There is a terrific sadness in every time
I look in the mirror and pretend to smile.

Dear Adam,
I have missed the spring and I am coming to you soon
The eyes that flicker, the stories behind the eyelids
The heart that ***** in the air
Like a flightless bird that dreams to fly.
Make sure you open up those heavy arms of yours
Make of my thin body your prisoner
Forever
See me for the second time,
Look at me as if it was the first time.

Adam, the ground has never been mine to walk upon
This Earth is selfish, she wants us all
But I am weary, just like you.
Everywhere I look, I find wrinkles
Old objects full of dust
Young people full of lust
Golden hearts full of rust.

Adam, I have been reeking of desolation
Since the day I died
Right there on grass that has never been greener
Under a sun that has never shone brighter
Since I died
Of longing
I have been reeking of desperation
If it wasn't for the books you left me,
If it wasn't for this letter today
If it wasn't for the hope of finding you again
I would have long turned into a portrait
Copied off of a portrait of a portrait
Of a portrait someone painted off the back of their mind
Intelligible and faint.

Adam, the lines on my palms are fading
Drip by drip
The water in me is adding up
And drowning what life has left of me
Poor little soul, good for nothing but the sadness

Adam, I wish I was sad like you
But I am not sad
I am bored,
Like a writer that never learned to write
A painter without paints
A mermaid on land
I am bored like the zoo.

I am coming to you soon.
But I know you're not there.

Goodbye summer and everything that's as clear
I will miss you my dear.


-- Watercolour