Melodies are poetry,
you are poetry,
his eyes were poetry,
and my hands are made of words,
                                                            stanzas,
                                                                          and figurative language.
It's hard to breathe and not think of a poem.

"Dust if you must,"
but I will not.

I will live life,
as life is a poem.
And I won't stop until each word is written,
all the pages are used up,
and no stanzas are left to be finished.

No words left unsaid,
because an unfinished poem is like a life abandoned,
as is a guitar song cut off in the middle,
and his eyes losing their glisten.

Some people die every second
A day.
Others
still live  even after their death.
Their life has no end.
I feel out of breath.

I think you died
you forgot to tell me

no invitation to the burial or the funeral
why didn't you tell me

was it an accident
tell me

why did you leave me so easily
for a boy who will only give you heartbreak

my friend died
she said I can't talk to you anymore
haven't heard from her in months

happy new year
you threw away our good friendship like a piece of paper

I'll visit your grave one day
press all your flowers and crush the ashes into the wind

you're dead to me
I know you're in trouble
only you can save yourself now