glued in limbo like a stained glass window just waiting for your change of heart but the clock isn't ticking and the air is thick up here as I feel you slipping through my fingers once again

A grey can under greyer skies
Who knew an inanimate object could cry
Huckey pucks and baseball bats dented
These miserable hurt feelings cemented
Deep inside something with barely a friend
A broken typewriter at its end
A radio that couldn't mend
Yet their love they still send
Even as the tires screech by weekly
Metal on metal screaming yet so weakly
As the object itself is garbage
Thrown across a forgotten bridge
A tin man broken
Over lost and loved tokens
They called it trash
But now his true heart's ash
Who knew an inanimate object could cry
A grey can under even greyer skies.

I've burnt a lot of things in my short lifetime.
Poems meant for you but never read to the unseen eye.
An assortment of books with your name hastily scrawled in them like I'm running out of time
Scrabble tiles in the form of the word tragic.
Tragic how the only thing you ever taught me was how to button my pants with *******. Both of which you'd.kiss before kissing my forehead goodbye.
I just don't want to burn my bridge to you. The woods are our safe haven that a forest fire could destroy.
I once burnt a heart into my skin, as the only thing you can't take away
Because when you leave. You'll take my happiness and my sanity and my name for when I'm with you I know that I'm yours
Without you I don't know who I am or what to do and I'm scared.
Scared of losing and having to face being alone.
I'm sorry I can't come to grip with myself but you've gripped me so tight with your eyes that I've gotten lost
I'm sorry that I need you and you've gone on to bigger and better things
I'm sorry that I'm nothing more than a grain of sand in your hourglass, just a miniscule second wasted away.
I'm sorry that I never have and will be good enough.
I'm not sorry for loving you
Loving you is the only thing I know how to do and I just hope it'll last.

I envy those lacking the vital skills I need as I practice these soliloquies in my mirror and even my own body doesn't obey me like my voice shaking like the plate tectonics of an earthquake right outside your house and I'm scared although I shouldn't be. Why are my vocal cords failing me as I'm screaming verbatim the last apology I ever received I don't understand this literary monster that hides in my tonsils instead of under my bed
im sorry head, that I cannot enunciate the words you so clearly strung together, I'm sorry heart, that I cannot convey the feelings that you pump through my veins, I'm sorry You, to have made you read this instead of never writing it in the first place.

So sick of getting discouraged by the way my own hands write lies for no body but my eyes alone to see. I do not create metaphors in the way I speak for interpreters to breathe.  I may have forgotten how to write but god these words still whisper in my dreams. "WE GET IT POETS, THINGS ARE LIKE OTHER THINGS" a stranger in the audience yells in the middle of my memior , I am sorry sir but you are an ******* like that of the gods greatest devils and I pray that you will stop. I should stop, but I have ink in my veins, and my smiles are composed of similies.I have a voice as small as a mouse but as loud as a lion. I look up at the stars and all I see are fallacies, oh god, look at the red herring. The constellations are making fun of me. How I wish I were a book so at least I'd have a spine. I cower in the land of fiction novels hiding from the people that are better than me. I know I'll never have the taste of Walt Whitman or face the horrors of Mr. poe but ******* how I want to. I'm afraid that if I don't figure out my purpose as a writer I'll forget how to speak to you and we'll grow apart like leaves on a tree in winter so glue a pen to my palm and make me dance and hopefully words will relearn how to waltz across the page. Its the very fiber of my being and I can no long use this double helix as a crutch.