whoever said that love is the greatest muse,
was a total bullshitter,
for i have never been happier
in that aspect of my life

and as a result,

the ink has dried in my mind,

i am a writer no more,
just a girl in love with a boy;
how incredibly dull.

Firstly,
thank you,
for the way you did it,
dropping me like that,
from such a height,
letting me cascade and crash like that

no-one ever expresses how they feel,
until their feelings fade,
and all of a sudden,
there's no need for an explanation,
only broken goodbyes

you get told that you're strong
that you're gonna be okay,
but that's no use at present,
I am going to be okay,
One day - maybe soon -
it's not gonna hurt anymore,
I'll get to fade too

but for now,
I'm sincerely yours,
and that ******* *****.

I wish I was well-versed,
in the sacred art of fading,
it really sounds quite beautiful.

From what I can gather,
fading allows you to be in 'love' one day,
and empty the next -
void of any emotions towards the once golden girl,
whose light is now a meagre amber; yellowing fast.

It's like a scotch for an alcoholic,
Or the sun for the moon;
It's like the light for the blind,
Or music for the deaf;
It's like peace for soldiers
Or time for those running out -
That's what it's like,
To fall in love with poetry,
To appreciate the works of the greats,
To understand the beauty of interpretation -
it's nothing more and
nothing less than
an addiction

I am so tired
of being tired
of being scared
of not knowing
what I want
what I need
I am so sleepy
with it all.

Why is it that we always want what we are not?
I so desperately wanted to be in love,
I was so sure I would be happy;
but I'm not.


All it has done is shift my discontent,
from that empty void of a boy
to myself -
and you don't need me to tell you,
discontent of self is far worse

Someone,
pressed their lips against my own,
a while back,
and
they were the first to do so.

Someone,
was as lost as I was
for a change,
and
they forgot a lot of it the next day,
same as I.

Someone,
has left me confused,
not in feeling,
for I know that
it was encased with inebriation
and not filled with regret,
merely delicately etched with it.

No
Someone,
has rendered me lost,
because before I knew I deserved nothing,
and
now I'm wondering why there's nothing more.

Someone,
took away my assurance,
that I would always be
alone
and has enclosed me
in a sea of doubt and hope
that I wish I could shake.

If only I was different,
if the thoughts that encompass my mind
were different
were less,
then maybe I wouldn't be so isolated
Desolate.

If only I could show you
that somewhere within
I want all the things I fear aloud
I yearn for somebody to care enough
To push through the occluding ****
That I put up

I want nothing more
Than the  destruction of the isolation
of the desolation
that is worked through my bones

Everyone
calls me a cynic;
thinks of me as a fool -
for I do not believe in the reality
of soul-completing
story-worthily compelling
love

And I'm not sorry

Because
I know what I mean
and I know how I feel

Love is simply fictitious -
If it wasn't,
then one wouldn't
fall in and out of it
so quickly
No,
one wouldn't choose to hurt
and betray
and scare off
if it was real

And that's how I know

Why is it
that at 2:51 am
i am not enough?

at 2:51 am
i am alone here
not many people talk to me anymore
i haven't solidified many friendships
so everyone just
dissipates.

at 2:51 am
i can listen to old songs
that remind me of old times
and old stresses and old boys
old desperation to fit

yep

it's 2:51 am,
I am alone and that's exactly
how it should be.

Break me down again,
It was a great
source of inspiration for a while there.

Much as nature
decays
I crumble: ceaseless in the cycle
of life,
Death draws closer
with each piercing breath
I am wilting;
with no respite as I
hit
the ground;
landing softly on the harshness of death,
where I will remain,
a constant nothingness -
a mere whisper in the dark

I do not have dreams about the boy
that I have,
that loves me and holds me,
the boy I know I do love,

Instead, i dream fondly about the has-been boy,
The one who tore me down,
Confirmed my cynicism,
Shattered my already tumultuous relationship with love and ***

Yes, i dream about the has-been boy,
But worse still are the dreams of the could-have-been boy;
These dreams are different;
They concern the physical, they remind me of the brushes,
The near misses,
These are the dreams of lust and ***

I do not have dreams about the boy
That I have
For i am secure and happy there - and my shattered conscious cares little for contentedness,
i can not dream about my hearts satisfaction,
i must be craving.

tonight I realised,
the implications of having a pal,
someone who you see in both the moon
and sun,
someone who you would happily lay bare for,
secrets sprinkled and insecurities glistening.


tonight I realised,
the importance of self,
allowing myself to remain as whole as possible,
for when the other one starts to crumble,
i felt my torso dissipate.

tonight I realised,
the desperation of love,
something so tangible,
it is etched onto your corneas,
for when he shatters,
you can seldom hold it together.

tonight I realised,
I am really ******* in love,
and consequently ******* *******.

Writers write,
about love,
about self worth,
about doubt.

I write,
about the absence of love,
and then the struggles when it comes,

I write,
about self-worth,
it's importance and the consequential arrogance of my
self.

And I write
about doubt -
and my apparent addiction to it.

I wish we could write
about different things,
like the death of frogs,
or disappointing fries and burnt toast.

But I know,
that we write not out of choice,
but in search of solace.

tell me
why am i waiting on you
waiting for you
to come back
to love me fully
to hold me

let me know
when you'll be coming home
and home is of course not a place
but is simply just with me

tell me
are we ever gonna be on the same page again?
whether it's dogs or cats or fighting wars
will we ever fight for the same thing?

oh please
tell me
will you ever be ready to listen
or is this dream
has this dream
run it's course
and i
am obselete once more ?

please don't stop me
from being a dreamer
an idealist
a critic

i need those parts of me,
a sense of purpose in
a
   confused navigation of my twenties

i am sorry i am not
what you thought i would be,
grateful and desperate for an organised life,

actually,
no i'm ******* not.

Is it lame
that I wanted last night to be different,
that I didn't want the poison to trickle down
my throat for no reason

Is it stupid
that I made an effort last night,
that I was undeniably happy and yet
no one seemed to care

Am I lame
because I wanted someone to
replace the taste of toxic
leaving their scent on me  
so I wasn't alone

i'm scared
that its all gonna fall apart
me and you
fall apart at the seams
because you and i
are never in the same place

it used to annoy me
how much you wanted me
all the time; as though i was a new toy

guess i was right about that
because now you're too tired to even ask

i'm scared
that we could be over
i don't want us to be over
but i
can't keep the grey out
much longer.

we are all held together
by little tiny seams,
bound together with the lightest touch,
yet somehow,
resilient

it's funny how
quickly we are all overwhelmed
by boys and girls and love
and lust
and how quickly
it threatens our fragile self.

I often wonder what it would feel like,
to just loosen
my grip on reality, on myself, on how I feel,
how freeing it must be,
to unbound at the seams.