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At night
I lay my head down on my tear stained
And I wonder if it will begin again
The crying
The ache
The hunger for your touch on my skin
You fell asleep hours ago
And who knew that love makes you feel things they never showed in the movies
I feel knives taunting my rib cage
When I heave for air
And it was nights like these when you used to hold me
Tell me we were okay
You were honest
Brush my hair and wipe my tears
Tell me
I am a ******* mess
And flash your teeth at me playfully
Say "baby, I love you. You are the only one for me."
Because it was written on the script you had engraved on your palms when you started out in that play
It was the line you used for everyone
I'm trying not to worry about this girl
But all I can taste is ******* acid when you are away
I will never know the truth that lies beyond the lights of your phone
I will never know you
But I am trying still
Why is that?
It's because love makes you sick
Love makes you ******* irrational
And when I fall asleep at midnight
With school in 6 hours
I don't think
"Wow, this must be love"
I think about the dreams that I've been trying to escape from
And lately, no one realizes why I have been so sleep deprived
It's because I cannot escape you
This has taken a downward turn towards words unspoken
These words have been filling my chest cavity
And they are going to burst
If I cannot tell you them
 May 2014 blankpoems
Tom Leveille
i have racked my mind
trying to figure this whole thing out
the staying, the going
the threads we claim hold us here
& the people who've stopped to play a tune on them
i sometimes relate it
to waking up in waist deep snow
in our former selves
the us we wish we could give one another
the children we've sat on the shelves
trapped, like the looks
we leave behind in snow globes
i sometimes imagine ships
dragging the bottom to the sea of "me"
for sleep & pieces of my old self
to sell to the new one
like history doesn't repeat itself
it gets me wondering
if you too want an apology from the rain
or if you dream of burning family photo albums
and wearing the ashes like perfume
if you're anything like me
how i hope god chokes
on memories of me blowing out candles as a child
i know i shouldn't reference my reader  
but don't you know, the only difference
between alone & lonely is you?
that if my hands could talk
the only thing they'd be able to say
is "dear god we've missed you"
and how can you tell me it isn't love
when even the rain refuses to fall
in places where i've kissed you
i remember the day
you found my smile at a yard sale
it reminds me of how you'll leave
i wonder if when you go
you'll tell yourself
the person in the rear view mirror
is closer than they appear
 Feb 2014 blankpoems
The dirt and the heavens have sat and shown us everything at once, telling about the heart has grown gray hairs on it's brim waiting to be groomed.
I say they are roots, not hairs.
I say all the words anyone can ever spill into you are a rainstorm or a desert and they are going to make you wilt or drown you but either way you are as much of yourself as you can be.
We live in a world that is plagued with shadows that are taken apart by sun beams and sparks of the moon yet they do not know how to stop coming back to our hips like black horses that ride with what we allow Them to ride with.
And they sleep like they know there is a tomorrow, they have courage welded from wind and reverence from the cathedrals of giants that do not know how to be anything less than their very own purpose.
I think of the chapels of light, and the towers of dark, and how there are not even kingdoms filled with both of them, and I am reminded that they love each other too much to be consumed with the presence of one another knowing the world may stop it's dancing.
I hope come to be that way.
That I learn to love someones precense so much I cannot bare to be around it.
Infesting the night or the stars dictating the day as if something that cannot be held is not worth hoping for.
I think of what does not return and what does return, and ask that I have the wisdom to know the difference between what keeps me from seeing, and what has spent it's entire life giving my eyes gifts wrapped in flesh and blood and bone and filled with secrets not made to be kept on shelves or shoulders.
This world is not a child that can lie on your chest in slumber and fall asleep as easy as it wakes up. And I say, there cannot be evil where there is music, and that both what we give, and what we take, are the mosr beautiful thins our bodies can produce and that,

that is what is hidden in between shades of the Earth and her silence.
And from the loss and the blind places of land,
we run.
 Nov 2013 blankpoems
I filled your veins with water and wrote you down on white paper so I didn't have to read you back anymore. Girl's got a suicide pact across the pacific and all I can do is taste the dust.
2. There is a certainty in the way your body moves out time with itself when you think too much.
3. You told me you wanted to be a saint but you were too afraid of the sight of god. When you asked what belief tasted of they told you: fresh buttercream and a wasp's sting. We didn't see you for days.
4. There is a certain tension and it only exists between the bends of girl's legs and the concrete which holds them stronger than any arms could.
5. I want to run every cliche by you and watch you hold hands into the night with it instead of me.
6. Some people can be replicated entirely out of candle wax.
7. WHY DO YOU HAVE TO BE SO ******* SELF AWARE ALL THE TIME. You can't even watch yourself.
8. You know you're a halfway house of cells and who are you to say I can't keep up?
9. Say would you tell me if I was just a little off key?
9. Would you tell me the answers to the questions I never asked?
9. Would you play that evening differently if you could turn back the hands that bind you?
10. I burnt you a bridge and sent you the fire like we could ever fill a room with your god. I want to ask him what he thinks of our sins.
11. There is a fluidity in the way your words turn back on themselves.
11. There is a fluidity in the way you turn back on yourself.
11. There is a fluidity in the way people leave doors open for you.
12. I don't think I'd even know what to say to you if I saw you.
13. I only feel comfortable on even numbers.
13. I guess I made myself an odd number.
13. I don't know what we're left with.
13. This is not how we were supposed to end up.
14. I wish you could see the holes you left in the back of my throat.
15. Loving you was as easy as leaving the lights on.
16. And that walk to your parents house was a floodlit symphony like you capitalised every word of every passage I wrote about you with
17 reasons to stay.
And 18 to leave.

The first was the last time I shook like a guard rail and you were a concrete staircase, and I swear, I ain't never seen nothing like you yet.
The second: my fist on your name. But I am here now, like a lit splint bursting into flames, you won't ever find a ghost like me again babe.
The third. And you just want to **** everything. I said you just want to **** everything in your Berlin Wall house.
Your girl's got a bullet hole for a mouth and when it rains, it really does pour round here.
It only takes one step to walk over the edge
And if your heart is as cracked as the canyon under your feet,
I suggest you back away from it
Because the split rocks scattered around you
Are not good indicators of
The split seconds it would take
For your hands to reach the heavens and
Your face to connect with the ground beneath
And although your only thought is
Whether you would finally be able to fly
And reach the other side
You are only a human
Standing with your barefeet pressed into sand
And your toes kissing a ledge
And although you can't fly right now
That doesn't mean you never will
But it only takes one step to walk over the edge.
 Oct 2013 blankpoems
i am terribly sorry for this horrifying sight you see, for the caretaker has recently joined the residents and the grass has almost no manners at all. i am also terribly sorry for this deafening silence you hear, for everyone is either lonely or sad and no one bothers to speak or sing. everything here has been reduced to dust, and just let this be at the back of your mind―everywhere you step there is someone underneath. repeat after me: This Is Not A Pun. i remember telling you about how no one ever noticed me or gave me attention but you silenced me with a withering glare and a no-one-cares-about-you lecture. it’s kind of funny each time i think about it, because i still stay by your side desperately inhaling all your methane filled words. if you’re looking for warmth and happiness then you’ve knocked the wrong door, because over here i have seen more regrets than in prisons; more tears than in hospitals; more bruises than in kindergartens. the stars in the night skies here hang limply on their hinges and there is nothing romantic in the way someone appears holding a bouquet of flowers. here is a girl with cherry blossom veins on her wrists, and there is a man with breath like the stinging October wind. everyone is a puzzle piece except that there is no picture to form, and we are all connected by intangible threads. in the most poetic way, everyone here is part of a poem, some rhyming, some free verse, except that there is no end to this poem―new additions. every month, a new spot. under the tree; next to the bench; these are the souls of people who scrape their knees in the empty forest but want to be helped up, an- OH, by the way, if you hear whispers and see movement from under the leaves, it’s not a hallucination. What? Didn’t I tell you?

Welcome to The Cemetery.
there is no clear message so to say
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