Who taught you to love like folded pages?
You hid them away because you do not need self validation.
Why are you still writing apologies in the form of poems?
Indeed, you are too full for their palms to hold.

Why do you keep blaming other things for your unluckiness?
Things bigger and better than what you're becoming to be.
Things have better things to do,
Instead of focusing on your slander,
That isn't as bitter.

Why do you keep doing it even when you don't like it?
Stop putting on a brave face.
Though they say fake it till you make it.
Life will probably end on it's own,
But your hopeless romantic mind is braided with dreams of the unknowns of 'someones' and 'somedays'.

You whine about the creative blockage that prevents you from creating,
Every now and then.
Why can't you just pick up a pen and jot something down to make you feel less even?
Stop eating your feelings alive.
There are food that you can eat.
And water that you can drink,
Instead of romanticising the feeling of drowning.

Your life is a big question mark,
And you are left with very little knowledge to search for an answer,
But by writing down things that you should stop doing instead of working on them,
Wouldn't get you anywhere,
Either.

I'm either too much,
Or not enough,
It's never in-between,
And when you,
Look at me,
I don't know,
What you see.

How long love is,
It could not be measured,
But you asked me;
How long will I love you,
And I, have been searching for the answer ever since.
From the length of my arm,
To my fingers.
Counting every single sin.

Long after,
I wrote down the date where I let my walls down for you to see,
Every little world I had planted inside me.
I love you from here.

I ended it with my answer,
On that very day,
Where your name was the only thing that's familiar;
To here.