I long for you in the way the night
struggles to envelop the Earth daily,
in the ways in which I fear
my words will never be enough
for your crystalline heart.
I want to fall like raindrops
into your hair on Sunday morning,
when it is time for me to go,
and there are clouds in your eyes.
I have prayed for you eternally;
hold me close and I'll wrap you
into me as the daylight fades to dark.
Let us never know another lonesome night,
not until we are old and frail
and content with the life we have lived.

This'll be the last one I write you,
As twilight turns blue,
And black again,
The sun rises eventually,
And the sunset was too beautiful
To miss,
A song on repeat,
That sounds like me,
And feels like you.
I smile at what we had,
You smile at what we became,
Regardless, at least we are smiling.
Deserved love, but undeserved lovers,
But a love nonetheless.
We doubled booked venues,
There isn't a show to steal anymore,
But you're solo act will knock them dead.
I'm proud of what you are,
I'm disappointed that I don't get to act out,
The rest of the scene,
At least it was beautiful while we were on stage.
So, put down the lines,
And turn the page,
This will be the last one that I write for you,
But I look forward to the one,
You write, for you.

I lost you
And I'll regret it always
But sometimes when I catch myself thinking of you
I say that if these hands were to ever reach for you again
I'd cut them off
I'm done performing autopsies on conversations from a lifetime ago
I didn't bury you in the past
I expelled you
You don't hide in some corner
No
I polished my heart with all the good
You lost me
And I'll regret it always

My nights consist of falling apart
On a daily basis
That’s according to my thesis
On my own self evaluations
Keep getting caught in bad situations
This is an invitation
To not feel okay
Sometimes you just need to cry
Let it all out
In a form of sentences
Trying to express your emotion
What’s holding you down promoted
To this cause I am devoted
Left vulnerable and open

Bleeding and broken

©2018 Written By Benji James

my heart itches
hates wanderlust
and fake poetry

picked at fingers
fight among themselves
****** and tired
under the table

i don't know if i was born
with a self destruct option
or if it just appeared in
the right moment
and knew i needed
something

****, i'm not atlas
i'm not metaphor:
my shoulders
hurt

let me sleep