When I think of you
                                                             ­                    I think of teacups;
for when my mind is blank                
                              
                                 ­  the thoughts of you manage to

                                               l
                                                      e
       ­                                                       a
        ­                                                              k

­                                                                 ­             inside my head.

the insecurity that intersects
your fingers and my figure
is enough to spin a whirlpool
seven miles wide

i rage at your taste for me
but i am cyclical, stuck
i am a fly on your calf
you do not even notice my thrashing

to feel you are ugly in the arms of a lover
to feel you are nothing in the clenches of another
frankly,
i think is quite common.

How can you look into my eyes and tell me you care
when your gaze is burning holes in my brain?
You held me close and ran your fingers, searching for delicacy;
I thought it was because you wanted to protect me,
you knew it as a way to control me.

When you locked your hands in mine,
you said you promised you'd never leave;
I didn't know you meant it figuratively;
please, stop haunting me.

You spoke sweet nothings,
made me smile, made me happy,
but I only soon found that they were just that:
sweet, bitter, sugar-coated
empty words of nothing.

How can you hold my hand
and dig your nails so deep
into the creases of my fingers
and invade my blood-stream

only to tell me to forget you.

(NJ2014) © All Rights Reserved.

The girl was a novel awaiting to be read,
Sitting on a oak shelf with endless colors in her hair.
She wore her scars hidden behind her parchment clothes,
Dreaming about a chapter that had yet to be exposed.

She spent her days between the pages,
Falling behind in the world's story.
She had read herself so many times,
that she had forgotten to read the world once.

The girl was a novel awaiting to be read,
by someone rather than herself.
She had been consumed in her own pages,
lost in a sea unfathomably alone.

The girl never once turned to look beside her;
at the row of books left untouched on the same shelf.
They had always been there in their rainbow sea of colors;
their binders tattered and titles exposed.

She believed herself to be a book,
never a reader.

The oak shelf did nothing but
support her.

The girl was a novel awaiting to be read.
The girl was a novel awaiting to be favored.

you can replace him with hobbies, other people, with things, things that you need and things that you don't.

but you don't need him.

I took my love and took it down
Climbed a mountain and then turned around
And I saw my reflection in the snow covered hills

Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?
Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?

I've been afraid of changing
Cause I've built my life around one
Time makes me bolder
As I am getting older

Will this landslide bring me down