She poses
as a poet
to get noticed,
to be heard-

but really,
she writes novels,
forces poetry-
absurd.

Oh, she wants to be
so many people,
she wants
to take their souls-

and if you look
a little closer
there is jealousy
in her bones-

yes, she writes
and yes, she dreams,
but she struggles
to compete-

and only when she
is the better one
does she feel
accomplished, free-

and she tries
to act innocent,
but is that
an act of innocence?

She is only
her capabilities,
and she sets standards
nobody can meet-

she's taken lives
and ran free
but she is always where
she wants to be.

there is nothing beautiful about the way
I smell a little too much
like stale cigarettes and day old coffee
and not enough like the flowers
I am trying to grow in those
barren parts of me that I
refuse to let them see

We start from nothing
And spring from dreams
Reaching through dimensions
And time.
I stand like a rock
Rooted to the earth beneath my feet
Know this place
Own this space
Whilst possessing nothing at all
Still I fly
Pondering reality
Dreaming with clarity
Knowing only
Love survives all.

There are stars falling
from the corners of her eyes
and they are burning down the road
she's trying to walk along.

I will pick up all of her fallen stars.

I will repair the ones that broke,
but I will not run from the responsibility.

The edges are sharp,
my hands might bleed out,
but to neglect her fallen constellations
would be almost criminal.

I know she's confused.

A word of advice:
Maybe you should guard your stars
from this world, the next time.

how the writing thins because another day heaps promptings onto her overthinking head, harrowing laments and fantastic stories
she gets some time alone, quiet, where ideas amplify or where dreams turn boundless

-c.j.

My clouds are falling
and all I want to do is run
but I remain frozen, no umbrella, no coat.

I thought the skies
would show me mercy,
but I guess I don't understand their poetry.

Torrential pouring of tears,
but I stand there accepting her grief
letting it wash away my pride.

I suppose one day I will realise why.

That day, I absorbed all of the rain,
and now all I can do is cry.