The memory of you still exists in my mind,
three years, two girlfriends, and a thousand bottles later.
The way i look for your eyes in a crowd is unsettling,
searching each face as they walk by in their own quiet parallel universe,
unaware of the longing for the comfort of your soft voice and gentle touch.
I look for you because you still are the one,
the one who suffered with me without question and saved me when i was in need.
Salvation was in large supply.
Redemption was a certainly familiar entity.
The road to your heart was a unpaved trail through the wilderness of time and space.
Let it be the one i stay on till the end.

ugly, fat
Its shouted down the halls and written on the walls
How you treat me, its like im not even human
Not even breathing
I AM a human being
Recognize I AM breathing
I can feel it all, like when your dagger wedged itself into my back
Stupid, freak
Words painted on my mind, send self-hate crawling up my spine
Its evident your heart is back, by the way you never fail to soak my sleeves, in crimson red
Pray to god, let me wake up dead
There is a pounding in my head as I realize
I AM weak
I AM failing, falling into blackness, void all light
No ones here, not even the faintest whisper of you're alright
Just hang in tight
I can only be strong for so long
But you know that, huh?
You see how im breaking
I AM suffocating
I am NOT breathing
You can't find it in your heart to care, but you should
Because I WAS a human being

i'm stuck again
i find myself emotionally involved in every inch of you
your collarbones, jaw line
arms, hands
chest
i heave myself into them all
i want to be as close to you as possible
my kisses brush on all of them
i find no end to my madness for you
i'm losing myself
blurring the boundaries between you and i
what have i done?
everything has become slow
but i can't seem to brush my cheeks over you
as quickly as i'd like to
hiding my face in your chest,
i pray i do not have leave your grasp
the warmth of your presences seeps into my chest
trickles into my stomach
reaches my ankles
i do not want to escape

I'm covered up in layers of the other peoples' skin
And I am losing track of just how deep I've gotten in
To you it sounds absurd because you cannot comprehend
That hid among the living are the ones who will pretend
See, they can take a day and manipulate with ease
The shining of the sun and the coming of the breeze
For they will place their shadow over that which isn't theirs
And try their best to claim that the truth is everywhere
The eyes inside my head are the ones that follow suit
I'm looking into everything and I'm pining over fruit
It's only when I fail to remember what I've seen
That I can take a second to uncover all of me
I know this very well but it's hard for me to grasp
My vision fully blooms in the things that I see past

I want to write a poem.
No, like I really really really wanna write a poem.
Problem, stick it to me.
Pause
Poems have to be good.
Okay, so a poem doesn't have to be good
However, the point of the art is to have someone read
Those flippy little words that you pulled out
Of some intangible existence and pasted on
The Internet.

The Internet,
So you don't always put it online but,
Other people are "supposed" to read it.
To enjoy it, give you a pat on the back,
Maybe an "I see what you did there".
So poems are supposed to be presentable.
You've got to pay in sweat and ink but,
At least the words themselves are free.

What if I don't wanna have to make a "good" poem?
Okay so I really do want a pat on the back but
Sometimes I really like pasting things from
Intangible existences.
Fancy words right? Let me pat my own back.
Sometimes I just like putting my emotions on paper
While sounding like I read
More dictionaries than Webster.
Ha, ha, sigh.

There's a problem with having to be inspired to write **** down.
Do you think someone pays Taylor Swift's boyfriends
To break up with her
So she can write the
Next big hit?
I wouldn't doubt it.
My guardian angel should make the people around me
Say weird stuff such that I can write about
Walking on waves of shattered glass
Or
Singing of birds in circled flight.
Maybe I'd be better off being hit by a car.
That'd be some pretty touching poetry.

Some people write happy poetry too,
I don't know how they do it.
Sorry but, my world isn't flowers and  butterflies
Enough to warrant discussion of
Staying in the fairy meadow of light.
Sorry, I'm just jealous.

Maybe I just like writing stuff down?
What if I just don't want to be forgotten?
Leaving a legacy in my words more indellible
Than a pat on the back.
Doubt it.

I just don't want to forget.
Brain, why don't you get it?
I'm sitting here getting all intimate with an idea and
The next morning Brain's got no clue what their name is.
Like really, even if we invite a friend over and get creative with
Our tongues and mouths,
Brain doesn't remember the moments shared between us.
Paper doesn't think very well but it's got a decent memory bank.
So I save up for a brand new poem.
I thought words were free.

When I am given an assignment
I scoff inwardly.
The professor says
The project is due Thursday.
I know very well that she won't
Actually look at it till a month later.
A month later she'd accept it just the same,
So why put myself through this hell now?

Hell? You question me,
"**** it up and just do it, baby"
It's just some project.
Like all the others, relatively no effort,
It will take all of an hour to complete.
Then, it'd be over and done with.

Wrong.
It's Hell.
I stare into space, dreading the thought
Of lifting my pen to mark a sheet of paper just
Because I have to.
I could sit here for hours and write,
With the same pen, the story of my life,
The poetry that describes my innermost thoughts.

The same pen lifted for the assignment
Of someone else's creation,
Weighs down like the rock
Left behind after the cave's collapse.

The only times I've ever seriously considered,
Giving up.
The only times I've ever considered
Sleeping... Deeply,
Is when I am forced to lift,
One by one,
Each piece of rock, back into that cave's ceiling.

Sometimes when I've half finished,
I think that maybe,
If I shook the walls,
I could let it all cave in on me.
I'd never have to find my way back.

I walk into class,
Lay the sheet to rest
On the desk of it's judge.
Hardly notices my presence,
The granite dust on my eyelashes.

What do I get for my efforts?
Red pen, an "A".
My friends whine and moan,
"You didn't even have to try!"
Because I'm too smart to pay attention in class.
Too smart to actually study.
That I don't have to try.

They don't have to rebuild caves.