Your blue eyes
Match my blue hair
Maybe it's meant to be
I doubt it

I want to describe your eyes the way a poet can describe the sea
Though I am no poet
I am just me

I haven't written in a while
Have my words lost their touch?
The gold in my mind has all melted
Though diamonds are growing in its place

He wore blue today
I wonder if it's his favorite color
Maybe he likes my (blue) hair
Maybe he likes me

White-
pure, clean
Gold-
regal, elaborate
Green-
alive, peaceful

They told me to think of home
And home is usually a building or at least a town
But I  never thought that when they told me to think of home
I would think of you

Everyone is amazed
When they see my blue hair
But does anyone look at his blue eyes?
Does anyone marvel at them?
Maybe I'm the only one
Who thinks they're magical

Blue-eyed boy.
You will be the death of me.

If you see me with this big white notebook in my arms
it's because I can't get you off my mind
and I want to write down
every stupid poem that I think of
just in case it's a masterpiece

Are all lunatics obsessed with the moon?

As I think of you
The sky is so dark
But the stars are so bright

Will I still be stressed when I'm 74?*
Aren't things supposed to get better when you get older?

I caught you looking at me
It was probably just a coincidence
But to keep myself from falling apart
I'll stick to believing it wasn't

I can see the veins in his arms when he walks
And I can see the blue in his eyes when he laughs
And I wish that I could hold his hand and kiss his lips
But I'm so far away from doing that and I don't even know how to get closer,
But oh god, do I want to be his.

The way the sea
Forgets to calm
Or how the wind
Forgets to sing
I will forget my sadness
When I see you

I want to describe you with the most brilliant poetry.
I want to tell with beautiful words how you have a slight smirk when you smile, one side of your mouth raising higher than the other.
I want to compare your eyes to the ocean or the sky, so blue I can't look away.
I want to describe your hands, so exotically carved that I can see your bones as your fingers dance across the piano.
I want you to be astonished at how I can beautifully string together the most amazing words in my vocabulary just to try and describe how you make me feel.
I want to be a poet for you.

How to know if you're in love?
Well, do you cry at night?
Have you ever seen someone and been so incredibly happy that they exist
But so devastated that they're not yours?
When they smile, do you get weak?
If yes, then you might be in love.

I get the feeling
Even though I know that I shouldn't
Even through every note you play
Every word you say
That maybe you like me back?

I'd like to think
That I'm a poet
But I know I'm not
And I'd like to think that after today
I'd put my pen down
But I know I won't
Even when my hands are shaking
And I feel so weak
I'll keep writing down
Every thought I have