keep your eyes closed love.

           e     t      
       m           i
    o                 m
s                        e  
                            s     all you have to
                                                                ­
                                                                ­ l                  to is what the sound
                                                           ­      i            n
                                                  ­                s           e
                                                               ­          t

                                                              ­                               v
                                                               ­                         a        e
                             ­                                          of the  w               s
                                                               ­                                       
                         ­                                                                 ­            tells  you
                                                                ­                                        to do.

What's that you say?

wedding day,
who's getting wed?

She said,
Wednesday
but I'm so used to not listening

must do better.

Believe in yourself
You got nothing to lose
Just hold your head up high
It all depends on you

When I was younger,
I had a plant.

I loved my plant and took good care of it.
I watered that plant every single day,
I talked to it,
I made sure it had the best angles of sunlight,
but
my plant still died.

I sobbed for hours,
my father tried to console me,
but when asked that ever bothersome one word question
"Why?"

He simply said,
"Plants can die from too much care,
just as they can die from drought."

I've an itch to scratch
Inside my nose;
An itch that runs
Down to my toes.
I'll yoga pose
With those, my toes,
To wiggle-tiggle
That scratchy itch
Tickling my nose.

I trace your name in smoke
as my cigarette burns down to
my fingers

I flick ash furiously away from me
because I will not find you
in embers

I miss the way you made my coffee
in the morning
The way you told me it was bad for me
yet you’d still pour

that thick black liquid, into my chipped mug
that I refused to throw away

I hope you find me, here
I am sitting under the stars we named
after each other

I will not move
until I feel your hand slice into mine
and the stars flicker

signalling a new chapter

The best poems avoid eye contact.

Just before you find their rhythm,
catch their direction,
they dance away,
and you watch their beauty,
leaving

you full of wanting
wishing
you knew the steps
hoping
you might keep up
wondering
where they led
leaving
you to tap your feet,
missing
every third or fourth beat,
kidding
yourself that you too
could be sliding, shuffling
and maybe grasping the sway,

but they dance away,
and you stay,
while your eyes follow.

There are different reasons why you write.
You write because...
...you're happy?
you're sad?
you're delighted?
you're mourning?
keeping a secret?
But whichever reason you have,
you still write what's inside.
What other people can't see,
can't decipher beneath the words you speak,
can't understand the emotions flowing
through the sentences you can't speak out loud.
You write, pouring the feelings you can't let out,
you write. using the words you once thought can't explain what you feel.
You write, thinking that someone out there can finally discern what you're hiding inside.