i am in a haze today. it is cloudy and beautiful outside. it is also pressing down on my chest and i struggle for air. i wore your shirt to bed last night and it helped steady my oxygen supply. i wish you were here to say my name and speak to me in my native tongue to remind who i am and where i've come from. i'm forgetting everything, slowly. recreating yourself is only good when you haven't done it five thousand times over. i just want to be me now. but how do i become me if there is no you? pick me up from the library and walk me to class. hold my hand and tell me that you will stay with me no matter how grey the sky is or how cold my fingers feel.

As a poet
I am expected to romanticize the **** out of you
spill my heart out on paper write about the way you drink your tea so calmly and how it reminds me of the sun going down
sliding my fingers through your messy hair is like running through a field of sunflowers, I'd write
none of this really fits though
after all, I'm a poet

when you sleep
I'll admire the peace and beauty that lie within your precious, resting face

I'll write about the shades of green your eyes hold
and go in detail about how different they are from each other

I'll fall asleep next to you and hold you tight when you're not sleeping right

I'll be the breeze in the summer
not the disturbing type that ruins your hair
but the type you crave when the hat is running down your neck, spine
(everything will be fine)

I'll kiss you
wait, no
I'll gently press my lower lip against yours
breathing in the air I've been missing out on
placing my thumbs on your cheeks, carefully
I'll kiss you like my life depended on it

As delicate as a poets soul may be, my soul

I'll be the first sip of coffee that burns your tongue
the insomnia sweeping into your bed at 3am
baby please stay up with me
I'll be the discomfort in silence, the wrong color that ruins a painting
(pardon my screaming I can't hear myself with all these voices in my head)


call me a poet

We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.


We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.

anyone can write poetry you just have to be poetic. if you find the way the light falls through your window and onto your bedroom wall pretty, write about it. call it soft and golden like the sweet taste of honey. if it makes you glad to be alive then it’s not silly. you look for the beauty of things, be proud of that. always look for beauty in the little things in life. if you’re feeling sad, describe how you’re feeling with writing. use your sadness to create something. say the heavy rain is kissing you. write about the glow of the moon, the dancing of flowers. make your world magical. collect your metaphors and treasure them forever.