And the rain fell as numbers
countless splashes
painted pearls of days
turning my hair to white
all unknowing
that soon enough the storm would pass
and whoever threw these jewels
to cover me with life
would only hurl them once

The lonliest people
push away arms that care
they kick at gifts of comfort
as if the lonliness itself were a grey woollen blanket
wrapped tight around themselves
protection against feeling anything at all
except lonliness
because that would make the blanket fall
and leave them cold
naked in the light
and vulnerable
to vicious attacks of kindness

pressed against a gentle river of bedsheets
falling loose from the mattress with every wave
to finally intertwine in the rythym of our heartbeats
i cannot help being depraved, as each motion makes me crave

"adore me, adore me, all that much, and more"
i plead, i cry, and his hands overwhelm mine
"a pretty little thing, obedient and kind, perfect for a *****"
as long as he gives me attention, all will be fine

all he's ever shown is the blushing red of kisses and bites
and all he's ever known is a cruel kind of rational
but even with all the flowers he gives, he never seems to fight
and it all seems to decay into something entirely foul

im done with the suffocating scent of amaryllis that i let fill my arteries
the sweet sticky pollen that tightens my throat so i can no longer breathe

i wanna write more
but my mind is empty
soul is missing
heart is shattered
i am broken
i am lost

I’m buried in a cocoon of stories
From poetry,
To biographies,
To dystopia,
And romance
So many stories
Of so many people
Real,
Or just figments of the author’s
Imagination
Sitting atop wooden bookshelves
Waiting for the right person,
To pick them up
And get lost in their story
For everyone has a story to tell,
Some are overly exaggerated,
And other’s are rarely heard
The important thing is
That we share our stories
Through word of mouth,
The internet,
Or in a notebook
To be found by future historians
Tell your story
Believe me, you won’t regret it

I am rotting
and poetry falls from my hands
like leaves
from a hollow tree.

I smelled something
curious as I entered
my home today,
a musty yet
familiar fragrant
I hadn't whiffed
in years trailing
from my dining
room table.

There nestled between
the flowers and the mail  
thoughtfully brought in
was your love letter,
that reeked of the future.

This whole ******
house reeks of it now,
and I have to shoot these
clothes into the wash,
or set them ablaze.

You've spilled our past
into this cursed letter too,  
compliments stuffed
in the margins like
a Thanksgiving ham,
absolutes written in sand.

You've tried to hide
space with your ink,
your cover ups,
smoke and mirrors
are heavy here,
the same patterns,
bright as day,
expected as the
migrating duck,
I must navigate
out of.

It sings of how
time can strangle
your dreams,
and weigh on
your shoulders
with hybrid
sentiment.

And right there in
the middle of this,
stuck in the heavy
gossamer of your word,
is me.

My future shouldn't
reek of this flavor,
I prefer the stale
moment of my
presence to
engulf me,
and to sit in grey,
I enjoy my grey.

To be both
guest and host
in my world,  
and to continously
arrive back to myself.

I am the prodigal one,
always leaving
always returning,
back and forth
back and forth
i am the wave
and you are just
the traveler,
i am afraid.

Romeo
you were the East
but there was no sun
for you and Juliet
a drip of light
new sprung
from a talented quill
then darkness
stolen moments
briefly given
then taken
puppets
in the mind of your
creator