It's not love
untill I wrote a poem about you.

How stereotypical can one person be?
Our hearts are like birds and its wings are the sea,
Relentless yet soft, as the sirens sing: "Free."
And salty yet sweet, ore the distance we'll heave

A sigh as a sign from our lips: "Nevermore."
If minds are our boats as our boats near the shore,
The ocean's grown sour, our sails are torn,
The wind-maker cries at the siren's song: "War"

Our intricate, gossamer sails we weave,
If heartbreak is rain and the sky starts to bleed,
Unravel and all that is left: You and Me
Will fly and will love without wings, but two feet.

I liked you because,
In your presence,
I was human.
And I was beautiful.
But the mirror was empty,
To me.

2. You still look at me in the hallways.
Am I still beautiful to you?
It doesn't matter.
I know I am.

3. I saw you in my dream,
The other night.
And we kissed
Just like we used to.
But I woke up screaming in fear.

4. We don't speak anymore.
"Growing apart" is not an excuse.
I need more.
I need "I'm sorry" and "I will try"
But it's my fault,
Right?

5. I wrote you seven letters.
One each day I missed you
During that week.
I threw them out.
You don't miss me.
Anymore.

6. She looked beautiful
On the glistening shore
In the hot summer sun.
She looked beautiful
Even when she cried
Because it was my fault,
Again.

7. I still think about you
On the nights I am laying awake,
In a bed made for you and me,
Not just me.

8. And you,
What if I told you I was too in love with you?
Would you believe me?
No.
"We" both know you loved me more.

Drift in space with me, firefly
and guide me on a sea of stars
to the city limits of the Sun, so that I may feel warm again
and no longer need the light
from your chemical imbalances.

I can feel the dry dirt tracks
between my toes and under
my bare feet.
Cars have been here,
when the mud was wet.
Footprints, paw prints,
they show me ghosts of lazy
sunday afternoons
and bicycle tracks,
perhaps, I could
track them back.

So, this dry field under my
feet is ugly
with it's yellowing grass that
stretches endlessly.
The day is dark
and the field is dead.

Strange, I feel it should be blooming.

Lost, the grass is lifeless,
dry and dull
it would be so simple and
satisfying to spark up a
wildfire.
Overwhelming, hot and all consuming.
Over before you feel a thing.

And ****, this field is flippin' hopeless.
I want to set it on fire
               see it burn
               see it die
Just to see something.

I want to stand in the glare of it's death and welcome the coming beauty.

We had temporary tea parties on this field
placed mats and rugs over the yellow grass
so for a while, at least, I forgot it was there.
Now the plastic cups have toppled and the tea *** has blown away.

Maybe, baby, I'm in love with the sadness.
Maybe, I'm in love with the field.
Maybe, I want to stand there and watch it burn
forever
because I don't think
standing with my face in the sunlight will ever match up to the burning dance of the flames licking my face.

Kiss me on the forehead, kiss me on the cheek.

Would you take off your shoes and dance barefoot with me in this field of death?
Hold my hand, let's run, until there's nothing left.
Set the poppies alight and let me swallow them whole,
away we go, away we go...

Constant frustration and exhaustion occurs when at school
Panic, anxiety, rage, and sorrow
Yet silence is all I project

School is for work, which I am dissatisfied with
I'm a free-spirit, not a soldier of society

Boring, oh so boring!
I have more to believe in life than the standard "school"

School makes me frown, and I constantly look down
But it is the only way out.

-cc

To be loved by a writer
Is to be immortalized
You will live on forever in her writing
Your quirks,
Your ideas,
Your insecurities,
Writers notice everything
And we never forget
You might catch her smiling at you
For what seems like no reason at all
But she's just trying to describe
The exact color of your eyes

To be loved by a writer
Is to have your entire relationship in written word
All you have to do is read and re-live everything again
Your first kiss,
Your first fight,
Your first date
Nostalgic memories in chronological order
And you may even learn something you never knew
Since everything will be in her point of view

To be loved by a writer
Is to see her frustration
Because she wishes she could be an artist
Since no words serve you justice
She wishes she could just paint a picture
And then they would understand
Because no amount of words could perfectly depict
Your hair sticking up,
Your abundance of freckles,
You wearing glasses
She gets upset when she thinks
She'll never fully portray all the things you say and do
But she'll never run out of ways to say "I love you"

To be loved by a writer
Is to be eternal
And to never fully disappear
And no matter what, she'll see you everywhere
Even when she opens her mind and escapes reality
Because she is the writer
And you are her writing
For you own her heart
From which her words flow