I have a poetic bone in my body, I swear; I've seemed to misplace it
I'll search inside the cabinets, within the threads of my bedsheets
maybe you've withheld it in your eyes
breaking it with your icy glare,
maybe you enjoyed hearing it crack and shatter into pieces, 
was the dissonance music to your ears?
i thought i saw it the other day, chasing the hand you walked out on, 
funny how it could've escaped my grasp
when I once held it so close like the proverbial hand of cards,
a treasured piece of myself.
I can hear it now, it reverberating through the forest like the drumbeat of your heart.
Toying with me, a little girl attached to the strings of a puppeteer
suspending itself among the wind chimes that whisper melodies to the wind
it hangs there, taunting me with gut wrenching lullabies, torturing my every-waking moment
with the unmistakeable clinging of its own remnants.
I don't know if it'll ever return to me; do i even want it to?

I take my hat off and bow my head to every mile marker that is your 81, I know you're trying to follow my journey but kitten I'm going down south, East of misery and a little bit West of the cemetery, your ice cold heart just doesn't belong, the sun is my Shepard but baby you're just a sheep, I'll love you always just not in this mid Florida heat, complete opposites in the light of the path, you chose too early, and now your set in a casket, go haunt route 66 where I might visit in a few years, I'm just a wandering soul, trying to run, you're not making it easy on me, I miss my lost son

is time ours or hours?

People have always told me my eyes turn grey like the stormy skies.
Like the weathers chaos is being reflected in my very eyes.
My tears are the raindrops, when the cloud cries.

Maybe I should keep my head down on the ground.
Maybe my emotions will be more sound.
Maybe when the sun in shining my soul will be found.

Until then I'll remain sad
But I guess the rain isnt so bad
I mean mother nature could always be mad.

I never thought someone could love me like you.
Since when did the love songs make sense.
I dream about spending every last moment by your side.
I write, and write, and write about how your eyes look into mine
and how I love how our hands intertwine
I've finally found my muse.

I wake up to "to her" poems and know that someone actually cares.
The joyous eternity we will share
You write and write and write about how I'll forever be yours.
Let's spend forever on the beachline shores.
You've made me your muse, and I've never been so great-full
I love you

My heart is a bookend.
My heart is a paperweight.
My heart is a pencil sharpener, a cd player, and superglue
My heart is an atlas
My heart is an aviator
My heart is an Appalachian
My heart is a rodeo clown, the town jester, and a fabulous cook.
My heart is a survivor.
My heart is a tornado
My heart is a lone wolf
My heart is many things, and it is always, always yours.

Fire and ice share two common letters.
I and E. Vowels, to be particular.
Yet the similarities don't outweigh the differences.
Fire is how his hands feel on your thighs after the first fight and ice is how your heart feels on the night he walks away.
Fire is destructive, like your words that lash me like a whip, aND SOMETIMES I JUST WANT TO BURN EVERY SINGLE MEMORY OF THE LIGHTNING OFF YOUR LIPS FROM MY BRAIN but I can't risk the cold and lack what your warm hands bring. Ice is cruel, it leaves you cold and miserable, suffering as an avalanche of unreplied text messages and love letters unanswered downfall on your ever aching body aND I SWEAR IM SICK OF THIS ICEBERG IN MY HANDS, LEAVING ME NERVOUS AND NUMBED I just miss the smell of oak trees burning as we ran laughing through the forest, I'm sorry I was so cold, ruthless even that the moon cast its shadowed eyes upon me. We are opposites but we complete each other, fire and ice, come back, I need you to thaw me out, I'll melt in your arms and promise never to freeze again

I don't want to speak in coordinate tongues to imply that our paths will never meet again. The mutation of passion is what keeps us together but we can't keep using this double helix as a crutch . I have these fragments of words, and paper and hearts and glass, syntax of my own DNA that I know not what to do with.

I am so afraid that one day your heart will grow legs and run away

I love the spring.
The summer and the warm weather.
The green grass and the bumble bees.
I know someday I'll be sad again.
Maybe when the cold returns, freezing all feelings of happiness.
Or maybe when you realize and see my flaws as an open book before your eyes
or when you get bored and leave me to love another.
Or maybe when we're old and life cruelly takes you before the heavens do me
but for now as the weather gets better so do I.
The sun in smiling and so am I.

I am found on page 7 of google if you search "poems that whisper i love you" but you never look past page 1.
You found something that suited your taste buds on result #4 and never bothered to look further.
page 2; google+Poems+that+whisper+i+love+you=error404.html
page 3; please go on, but result number #5 was an interview of your favorite hockey team so page 4 never got a glance, page
5; four being overlooked, the images are screaming out your name of miscommunication and internet wrongdoing,
page 6; one more page, and youll find what youve always been looking for, but a message came up saying "meet me at the coffee shop" and the tab was closed forever. I will never be found, and yet you'll never care to wonder what could have been if you would've just read page 7

we are the underdogs of this era, the generation of incineration
lying in the gutter like a ******* ***** rotton pup
we are the hated of the created, a social distortion of abortion,
the shouldve been gotten rid of
make them regret, scream. Wreck, everything.

a ******* salute, paint the skies red
dilute the cries of the undead with one of your own. *******
*****, tease. lyin 'bout your insecurities. done with your demise, not down with your lies.
**** your vice. roll the dice, the odds are never in your favor

what a contradiction, lying in the ditch with your homies who said
"dudes, we'll run the world one day." swell, swollen eyes and blackened eyes, what the hell.
allies with the unforgiven of who've never done a thing wrong. neck wrung. on the front lines with punks with tarred lungs. smoke, smoke, everything up in smoke.

break martial law, get down on your knees and crawl toward unjustice and saw them to obliteration. ***** the nation. stumble with eyes wide  and watch the debris of your broken states crumble to the ground. make no sound. they know the noise of defeat. left foot, right. whos in control now.
the rebels live.
the rebels thrive.
we are alive.
rebels united.

Its easier to write free verse but you like rhyming best so here's how it goes
3 am is for the poets, or didn't you know
That I'm always kissing and missing you, and picking your nose
I guess I'm just so in love with you, all that has to show

That I just want to make you smile
I'm proud of you and want you to be proud of me Mr Lyles
please stay for a little while
we'll walk hand in hand for miles

**love me, miss me, need me, want me,
Want me, need me, love me, miss me
miss me, love me, want me, need me,
Need me, want me, miss me, love me.

Think of love as a giant piece of metal, with you at one end and your significant other on the oppisite. The goal is just to create something. You will run into hard problems (ex, the metal not bending the way you want), awful noises (crying, laughter, ***, ect) your body hurting from exhaustion. And the shear terror of the ability for you or the other to just give up and walk away. But if both parties put in effort then you end up with this beautiful, unbreakable, piece of art, with you sig.other at your side. And that is worth it all. That is love.

*******, im just a kid with dreams, right?
dreaming of a day when all my problems go away
i dream of lightning striking trees the way teachers striked down every thought causing chaos and fire burning down the forest of thoughts in my brain
and of the waves, on a windy day, being able to wash away every bad memory of plagued black shores caused by irreugular heartbeats
the wasted potential of ghost poems haunt my subconcious on a regular basis
im afraid to go to sleep; nightmares of you leaving chase every atom of my ever running body, exhausted reality and non
i dream of books being true, the words of my favorite love novel unfolded in front of my eyes, spoken characters out of the past
dreaming dreams, all i ever do, in hopes that at least one comes true.

I have a problem
I listen to music so loud I can't hear my own thoughts and everybody says I'm going to go deaf by the age of 20 but at least I won't hear you say that you never loved me
I have a problem
Your favorite colors are silver and red so I take this blade across my skin again and again and bleed out the beauty that you said was only on the inside
I have a problem
My vision is blurry as a bottle drops from my hand
The sound I hear resonating when it shatters sounds miles away like the memory of our first date with champagne and roses and you loving me
I have a problem
I need to feel a pair of hands around my throat. Get a grip on life, ******, I love you.
I have a problem
You used to hate cigarettes. But now that you're gone, one always resides between my fingers where yours used to be and hopefully if I smoke at 11:11 you'll care enough to come back and stop me
I have a problem.

What is a poem
That thinks with rhymes
Calls for a variety of times
Justifies the heart's crimes.
What is a poem
With words so beautiful they have their own name
That make the mind play a game.
Nothing of the sort will ever be the same.
What is a poem
It could be anything and everything a poem wants to be.
A bird in the sky or a big open sea.
Or a creative book for you and me.
A poem can set your thoughts free.
What is a poem?

Appalachia did cry out home to me
my young mistress ne'er  could compare to
the love felt in thy heart and soul for thee
she smells of early morning petal dew

why does this land captures me so troubled
these branches have become a rustic cage
beaten and bruised thoughts left me white knuckled
she entrances and entices no matter age

I hear the whispers calling to my veins
held in open arms, immortalized dream
you are thy only breath, wide open plains
she hints at lust of remembrance, a scheme

           long to rest my feet upon thy soul
           thy roots and mind so constantly toil

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.

think I've forgotten how to write. I know i have a voice. It speaks in my mind but its receding like the hairline I know yours will when you're forty and I don't know whether it will come back and I'm afraid that if it doesn't 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.

I want to lay with you, listening to the synchronization of our heartbeats and lace my fingers with yours. Sometimes I think I'll wake up alone, empty air, not even an imprint of where you laid at all, like you were never even there. Don't leave me, sometimes I think you're just a dream and I'm so afraid of losing you to a nightmare that I can't destinguish reality from lucidity. Just lay with me, forget the world and let my body contour to yours like a mold, stars in a constellation perfectly fixated on each other. Catch me, as I'm falling asleep, never let me go, let's get lost in this lovers slumber.

Sometimes I wonder if the trees are green because they are jealous of the clouds, to grow so tall and yet never be able to hold hands with the sky, to never be good enough so when it rains its really just the clouds crying out for the lost friendship and they say the grass is always greener on the other side but that's only true because neither can reflect the meadow in your eyes that I often gaze into wondering if its really me you see and not some sycamore because no matter how luciously sinful nature is it'll always be beautiful and I will never compare to that emerald jewel because I'll always be a **** billowing in the land of self pity and outward envy.

I am made of wood and nails.
I am made of porcelain and a mirror.
I am made of mattresses and late night thoughts.
I am a flower who's through tears you water and through words you feed.
My petals will rise up to the rafters to give you a life to lean on
I will not boo you, or creep insecurities up through your feet and into your lungs, it is my soul that is the curtain that hides you from the misery, my echo that gives you the final callback, so callback the audience and give it one more try.
Stage fright? It is I who should fear you.

I 6 years old an out of sight
There's a pretty girl outside
But me no talk cause me ain't white
I don't understand difference
                           I see a little black boy
                          All alone looking at a stem
                        Who is he? Why is he so dark?
                    I think I'll ask mother about him
Loud knocking at the door
Theyre taking me from mommy
She's screaming, I'm crying
All I see is rope and a tree
                           I just got home from school
                         The colored boy is gone today
                         What a shame, I tell mom
                         I was going to ask him to play

April showers bring May flowers and seasons will always change 'cause when April fell in love with August she felt a little bit strange' cause she fell and fell and fell outta range 'cause as August turned red she burned and fled

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 only bleed to feel. I want to be whole again.

The saddest thing ever written about a girl and her words are the ones written to rid the ink on her quill.
- from stained hands and a broken heart

At least if I stand in your shadow mine won't scare me.

wish I were a book so id at least have a spine

Please tell me why my eyes feel hollow and my cheeks are sunken in.  

Don't tell me I told you so because I already know and I won't say I'm sorry because I would do it over again a thousand times.

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.

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.

Tilt the bottle up to my lips darling,'
After the first one I can't help myself

I'm writing by the light of lightening as raindrops gently wet my notebook and im using sharpie to make sure that my inspiration is not lost. The horizon is beautiful, fireflies glittering in the forest like stars in a galaxy. I never knew Mother Nature could be so upset as to make god cry and the moon hide. Dont ever feel as you're not good enough because i swear you can make mountains move and silence thunder. It feels like atomic bombs are leveling my heartbeat and the ground i walk on to get close to to you. My thoughts are getting more and more scrambled and my strength is running out
                                                                                            of
                                                                                                  line but the wind is whispering secrets that i must scribe.
             part 1;
                            The beginning is now. It's only 11:11 and the raindrops arent so gentle anymore. The shadows are already ravenous for missing you and the eeriness of the darkened sky has quieted even as the most deafening lies beg to be heard and i want to trust that everything will be okay. Please, let everything be okay
              Part 2;
                            I'm starting to miss the sun. I'm sorry for whatever i did to make you upset. I need your guidance, your light to show me the road to forgiveness as i have forgiven your sly actions. I need you to face your fear of tornadoes and come swirling home to me. I need you.
                 Part 3;
                              The end
                                       The storm is gone and so is my easy state of mind. My paper is dry but my thoughts are not and im sorry im only stable when i long for something i cannot have but i want to be bright and reckless and strong and everything the night is the i am not.
                                                           Goodbye.

Dead Poet's Society* has gotten too real,
Our favorite form of you is in teal,
Without your dry humor the world has gotten sad,
I wish Mrs. Doubtfire was my real dad,
Without you, todays world has gone whack,
Robin Williams, we need you back!

Maybe I didn't give myself enough time to grieve but my lungs were on my sleeve and I needed recitation. When I needed CPR you gave me Care.  Protection. Respect.  when I needed mouth to mouth you opened up and give me your all.  And ive been in your debt ever since.

im afraid to google your name because of all the newspaper articles about the little lost boy who never made it to graduation

Lend me your voice like a Shepard guiding me home. Tell me how you see yourself, not like in a picture or a mirror,  dig a hole inside your chest like a grave digger and unearth the ***** reality. ***** that consciousness until there isn't anything left holding you back and stare it in the face. Those eyes are yours, those lips that nose this whole ******* body is all you actually have so don't tell me you treat it like a tombstone just taking up space. Remove yourself from from the cemetery of self misery and plant yourself in resurrection.
Tell me about your drug of choice as I pull the needle out of your arm for what I hope is the last time, you absent-mindedly pick at a scab and say that it feels like your first tattoo, an old clock, a wristwatch that says time isnt ticking by fast enough
You said that it started with nicotine because girls could be so mean and you didn't understand why the first girl you ever loved choked you in bed and you said that you started to confuse *** with death, Tell me how it’s so easy to fall back into routine, how its just like breathing and how you cant seem to catch your breath, you tell me running from your problems isn’t a good idea when you have asthma and you know youre killing yourself but cant stop
Tell me your sign, whether its yield or “no right turn” so when youre left standing on the corner of suicide and denial I can come pick you up.

His touch was light as a feather
                                  Made of metal and coal
It burned a mark into my heart
                            And into my cheek as well
Swaddled me in layers of warmth
                                         But left me so cold
It tickled my nerves
                                  And tested my patience
I fell in love with a bird
                               The wind could not catch

I cannot watch slam poetry at school because my body tells me it is wrong to show emotions that to show emotion is to be weak and I cannot connect the dots of this broken spirit
it is called slam poetry because it makes me watch to break things, to lash out with these tears, to drown the sea of people forcing poets to feel this way, I tell myself that im only crying because im on my period, that this is the red river that heaven cast down upon us for the curse of our femininity.
when I show my poems to my best friend I cannot look her in the eyes because I am transparent and she will see through the mask of indignation and indiscretion that i've put on
when I want to show my poetry to my English teacher I have to send it when I am not around to see the look of disgust on his face and his eyes trail my words like the wind I cannot hear the whispers of not being strong enough, not worthy enough for this career I have chosen
I love the English language, my old ball and chain, but its my insecurity that's weighs me down.
How id love to stand and preach in the choir and sing my poetry for everyone in the gospel to hear, to be praised in coffee houses and tea shops and libraries, to stand up for myself. but I cannot even bare the sound of my own voice, so I sit down and have the polyester seats dig into my skin like knives in the back with myself and its own mistrust.
it is called youtube because it is all about you, you and your favorite button up cardigan, the frayed sleeves from the over worn achievements that I cannot grasp, but the pain is sewn in tight and I cannot pull it above your chest, you can make me scream but I cannot even begin to understand how those lungs continue to be fully functioning when I smoke like a freight train and its frightening how I run this scenario over and over in my head because I can never get high enough to forget the way I arch my back to these metaphors

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

think I've forgotten how to write. I know i have a voice. It speaks in my mind but its receding like the hairline I know yours will when you're forty and I don't know whether it will come back and I'm afraid that if it doesn't 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.