I am like a shadow where there’s light,
The silence that you can’t find in the loudest night.
I capture things like a frame,
Of the beautiful things that I see.
I sometimes hope that yours,
Includes me.
But I am like the piece of paper on the notice board,
That no one seems to read.
Maybe not everything is like me.
Not everything wants to be,
Seen.

In a way how hearts combine,
And facts and theories define.
You were made to be here.
So am I.

But love isn't how the universe held everything that is in it,
It's not the force of gravity,
And it's stability,
It's the uncertainty,
The unplanned journey,
Where fear is what's left in your sunken hole smiles,
Love isn't,
And will never become,
How the universe exists to be.

Every corner of my life is clean,
Untouched.
Except for my room and my overflowing thoughts.

It was sent to me like a dream,
Took away from me like how my days turn into nights without me wanting.
Tea strains,
Flower pots.
The smell of mornings begged me to,
Forget-you-not.

It was always the smiling one,
The loud one,
And I am always the unchosen,
The unwanted one.

Blocks of bricks were put together in it's simplest form,
We've all been there.
How we want without truly wanting,
How we leave with the thought of staying,
And how we forget,
With the unwavering thoughts of remembering.

But this is my place.
A place that you shouldn't have been,
A place that should be clean.
From any trace of you,
A place I only want to remember as corners from a room.
Not another place that you've been to.

Though, you keep showing up with the bluebells to the daises,
Showering me with unwanted and non-permanent solace.
I don't need you,
I have once not need you.
I once had places to go back to,
Now it's stained by the presence of your skimming laughter,
The unearthly yet ethereal face of yours,
The one that I no longer seem to know how to;
Remember.

But I go back every time,
Searching for how you look like,
Immersing myself in lies,
That it's just like a dream,
A perfect fantasy.
When it truly is nothing as it seems.

~for lovejunkie, who loved this poem best~

so many reasons,
so many stones
yet unturned,
for each poem
a season,
for every season,
a given reason

eyes, dimmer,
hearing, harder,
memories, ha,
disappear as fast as
footsteps upon
my island beach

this then
my log,
of places momentarily visited,
capturing the of,
of me,
the exactitude of
where, when and what
I felt

what felled me,
the long and lat,
of the attitudes
of breeze and currents,
the happenstance that carries
a desperate soul
eager and afraid
to remember

"how fragile we are"

so memorized records here,
for his storage and his places,
both filled and unfulfilled,

poems, nothing more,
flawed each,
product of a flawed man,
here, for all to see,
most of all,
for the man,
to see himself
when the eyes of his mind
at last be shuttered

Fidgeting my fingers,
Why do I feel so anxious?
The ground is tilting back and forth.
Back and forth.
Now the sound is too loud.
My palms are red.

Am I just enough?
Just enough for them to blow a hole,
And take a piece to fill in their sorrows.
Breathe.
Oh but the air is too tight.
Too heavy.
And I can’t.
Stop feeling so anxious.
As if my feet is wobbly and my bones are suddenly too heavy.
Wait- is it?
I am going to fall on my feet.
And people will see.
How careless I am in being.
But I wish that I could care less;
And ignore this.
Feeling.

I do not deserve the title,
Mama's precious daughter.
When I am nothing like,
Soft running water.

Mama's precious daughter,
She's witty and clever,
Balancing her life all together,
But I ain't mama's precious daughter,
I am far off being a precious gem,
When all I do is cry and complain,
About the things that I can't gain.

She's brave,
And daring,
Just like mama.
But I am not mama's precious daughter,
I plan my sentences in my head,
But I am always years late.

Mama's precious daughter,
Curves a smile on her face,
Voice like heaven,
But I ain't mama's little darling.
I waste my time on dreaming,
With a face so haunting.

Mama loves she,
Her wonderful,
Darling daughter,
But I am just an exception– the,
Opposite of,
Mama's precious daughter.