and the first question that came to my mind
was how on earth did I even survive?
Because I know why I wrote what I wrote
and I know how much I choked
on the agony of words that poured out of me.
I know what I have been through
and these poems record it.
They know too.
And to a degree,
everyone who reads them knows as well.
But at the same time
no one else knows for certain
what exactly was my Hell.
How did I survive?
Why did I choose to keep on going?
Why did I choose to stop writing at one point?
Was I really that depressed?
I guess I was.

*I guess I was.

I don't think love has to be about romance,
not about whether you made out with him or not.

More is said by the kiss of your hand against mine and the blink of your eyes,
than your lips pressed against mine for the fun of it

Love's about me caring for you
regardless of how you feel about me,
& thats where hurt chimes in

Unrequited love,
easier said than felt

You could sit there
laughing at me
& I'd be daydreaming about the sound of your voice
wonder about scenarios where you'd say all the right things
and I'd be all the right types of happy

But love can be unimaginable
can posses more beauty than the first light of dawn
as it's light shines through the newly grown petals of May