It's my fault i guess, get attached too easily maybe.
I shouldn't i know, but it's not like i can control it.

When i saw you, i knew you were special and i hoped that you were the one. But that's *******, life isn't a fairytale and prince don't exist.

Maybe i was blind because of perfect lined face.
That was new for me, you seemed interest and i was flatted.

But still.
At the end of the day, you don't care and i'm hurt.

he walks with grace and an
unmistakable insecurity that tip toes with delicacy and an
unusual acceptance towards the idea of death which is probably better than those
who are afraid
he holds their hands
and then crushes them
he isn't mine anymore

Would you mind Miss
If I wrote about you?
Would you get offended,
If I bragged about how you make me feel?
Would you care
If I raved on
About how how my heart leaps
When you smile?

Can I tell the world  
About your laugh?
Would you mind
If I told them that it's a Symphony?
Would you sigh
If they found out
That you're perfection
In it's purest forms?
That you're a masterpiece,
And that your smile
Should hang a while
In the best of the galleries.

You're amazing girl.
You're modern art.
Not everyone gets you,
But those who do
Knows what you're worth.

poems are not songs. poems cannot be written into songs and stop telling me that it can. ******* for the way that i write. *******  for the experiences, heartbreaks, and the things that are wrong with me; is forced out of my right hand to be turned in for a letter grade. you can write as a passion and express the sounds inside your body and convert them as feelings. poetry is beautiful. the straight girl you write about is beautiful. you've told me in millions of lives. symmetry in religion, gender, sexuality, etc, down to the color of your skin; is beautiful.

faces buried deep beneath the fluorescents just barely listening to the wires falling from their
brains with mundane expressions smeared instinctively across the ridges on their skulls and their hands
fiddling rigidly with the space between their thumbs and I wonder if they ever miss their
stops?

No memories
No triggers
No other reason for my tears

Just one guitar
Just one voice
Just the music in my ears

A brand new record.
Bright, self-renewed novelty.
Spin you paper thin.