You will say: “You’ve been holding out on me!” -
and that will be the day when this landslide of poetry
Finally comes spilling from my lips, because I can no longer withhold it -
And you will awake in the gardens that I’ve been growing here,
Looking at me with brand new eyes, like you’ve never really known me before,
Or seen me, or felt me, and we will roll together
Among these soft petals of imageries, fingernails like lilies
As you lift the pages, see them turning, these little white leaves,
Changing with the different seasons of visions and daydreams,
Thousands of hours passing in your eyes blinking, reading,
A living river of emotions flowing into those irises, of
All the things I cannot speak or explain or convey
When you are sitting here in silence, gazing deeply into me,
And I am leaning into your warm shoulder, wondering,
How I can turn these precious moments
Into the best kind of poetry.

or at least
you're not supposed to admit that they are
but everything is about love
or lack thereof
so, i think wholeness
is a lot to expect.
i think my chest
is gonna rattle no matter
who tries to fill it,
but i still wish for quiet.
i want stillness in my breaths,
and maybe i need to hold them
but maybe i need to hold him
and i think wholeness
is a lot to expect,
but regret stings less than loneliness
so i still write poems about love.

I write because I hate the sound of my voice
My mind sounds better
I can scream
I can yell
I can do the impossible
in my head
My words can be read louder than any spoken word
So just shut up and write
I write because I can't speak
My opinions are usually seen as
minuscule, unorthodox, and pointless
but when I write
I have meaning
I'm attempting to cultivate the perfect group of terms to move an audience I can't see
To show someone a thousand miles away from me that there not alone
I write to express myself
I write to allow my emotions to spew on to digitized pixels on a computer screen
I write to appease my need to let go
I write because I know no one is going to care
I write because it's my life and I do as I please

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.

Broken.
Ripped apart.
Empty.
A void that needs to be filled.
Feeling nothing,
but the constant disappointment that rises up with every word written,
with every thought shattered like glass
Left on the floor
For someone else to walk over
For someone Looking for something,
but never finding
and never knowing why,
always needing,
only ever understanding
That nothing feels right
And every idea is ephemeral
Chopped up into tiny pieces
Then gone in  Seconds
Drifting away with every thought
Flying high like lost birds
And they never seem to find their way home now
The words are never together
Covered with scribbles that look like waves
Yet they don't flow like a river
They crash and smash into each other as they were a stormy sea
They Jump around the page
And when spoken aloud
All the words clash
Falling to the ground like droplets of rain
And it's over again
A page is filled with nothing but scribbles
And ideas that never fully form
Half done before it's given up and ripped out.
A pen is picked up
A page is turned
and everything starts again.

With passing time
the paint begins to crack
and slowly peels away
Revealing a tainted canvas
of what you really are
as opposed to how I pictured you
I try to figure out
what is more heartbreaking,
Who you really are
or what I wanted to see.
The angel plucking my heartstrings
its lovely sirens song
or the Demon
who ripped them away
leaving a silent void.