I'm tired of written apologies you don't have the guts to speak-
Poets use words and letters and metaphors to explain how they feel
but you, you use a paint by numbers
and it seems to me I've ran out of every color
so now you're just a blank page staring back at me
tempting me to write my own apologies
because I somehow feel bad for you having to say sorry.
These days can become the flat tire on your car on the way to a funeral
but I will always be there to bring you light
even when you take your lack of apologies
and use them to knock out the lights on the ceiling fan-
I will wait in the dark until you decide to change the bulb.
But you never do-
so I'm left there picking up shards of lightbulb
as my hands bleed and spell out your apologies
and I look up at you and ask for help
but it seems you are stuck inside your own mind
your own world until the mess is cleaned up
and the light returns and then I'm stuck here apologizing
for getting blood stains on your t-shirt.
I understand dismay, and the ability to be distraught-
but I don't understand being someone else's peacoat
there to keep you warm until its no longer needed.
I just want to be appreciated.

You bruise me like the evening sky,
purple clouds forming on my sunset skin.
I never knew that galaxies could ache,
as fingertips trace,
the constellations of your affections.

Sometimes I feel
like a useless mass of space matter
Clumped together by ideas long ago tainted

I just do not understand
How the universe could be so against me
when I am the universe

Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go around,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.

Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.

I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't over there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories ****** but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.

In a spur of curiosity, I read about Vincent Van Gogh
His life, death, and all that lay between
And in stumbling upon the knowledge of my sudden interest
I see that his last words were,

"This sadness will last forever."

The ache of them resonates all too well and
an overwhelming sensation of familiarity fills the cavity of my chest

I think about all the things that could of been said and
decide none of them would probably be sufficient to save him
But I still mourn the unspoken

If only I had the chance to tell him
No, it won't

If only I knew him to say
No, it doesn't

This sadness is not permanent, I promise
Yes it remains,
Yes it is still there always, living comfortably in the shadows of our figures
But you learn to see past it
I wish I could tell him that permanence does not exist
That it is an idea man-made
And we are simply living for today

It's funny, how someone who created so much beauty could not find any in himself
In painting a future, ending seemed more promising than hope
So in that wheat field his chest kissed the bullet of a relvover
And he walked patiently towards death

Van Gogh,
Didn't anybody tell you it gets better?
Didn't anyone say that even if it doesn't, you can?

Van Gogh,
Don't you know that nothing lasts forever?
That we are merely existing to make it to tomorrow?

Vincent,
I know this world can be cruel
I know that eventually flowers turn to dust and the sky turns black at dusk but even you could see stars in darkness
You made an entire galaxy out of the night and we are still finding ways to admire its beauty

Vincent,
I know the sun can be harsh some days
I know the air can be too cold for motivation on others
I know sometimes getting out of bed can be a battle with yourself, seeming impossible
I know how it feels to be heavy with the weight of too much
And I am sorry that you couldn't bare it all

But this sadness wasn't made to last forever
Flowers will regrow and bloom again even brighter than before
The moon still shines against a dim canvas
Winter is only temporary and the gloom will pass when the seasons change
Before you know it spring will be here

I wish you could have stayed to see it come,
It is the only certainty in this eternity.

i don’t know how someone as small as me
with bones that break at the sight of heat lightning
and heart strings that thread apart at the sound of his voice
could make anyone feel like the sun shines brighter
through kaleidoscope eyes—
you’re okay if it brings out the freckles on your face,
and you feel good, you feel alive
you say i showed you how to love in a new way,
that i taught you to be so much more okay with your tummy,
“it’s been very freeing and life is a lot better, thank you,”
but i feel like i can’t say you’re welcome
because i am a messy cliché of imperfect scraps and hypocrisy
loosely sewn together with
“you are strong you are strong you are strong,”
but i feel so weak i feel so weak i feel so weak
and i am not steady hands, they shake like
wet dogs after kiddy pool baths,
i am flower seeds that forgot how to bloom,
trapped below the surface of a garden that feels like quicksand
and i’m sorry but you don’t see all the mistakes i make,
all the words i’ve preached that look back at me
and laugh when they see
what i feel, what i think, who i am behind closed doors,
i’m sorry.
you keep hanging medals around my neck, and
they’re so heavy, and i don’t know
what to say besides i love you
when you speak words of adoration,
but please do not praise me, i am not good.

I live in my head
I have my own room there
My own bed
Where I do my best thinking
Where I am most comfortable
It keeps me up most nights
Making to do lists and analyzing
conversations from days before
Daydreaming about everything
Some of the thoughts I have
are down right crazy
So crazy that it must not be me
there must be other people up there
and hell not just a room but a whole house
with several rooms and several conversations
I can envision it clearly
Sometimes I stay there for days
The lights are on
My shades are open
But no ones home
I do return to the real world and have
real conversations but seems like I
Always return to my head
Where I live
In my own room and my own bed