i was a poet.
my words
counted
structured
organized
picked and chosen
so carefully
i stifled my heart
in the process
but i loved you --
-- silently
from the bottom of coffee cups
in the transactions of homework
[your spanish, my english]
and my phone history;
all those calls i missed
hitting the mute button
when you played piano
and you understood
you knew my words
didn't say much at all.

but i am a poet.
and fifteen months
after my words were too late
he fell for them, instead
the counting
their structure
my organization
i picked and i chose
like a calculator
starving my heart
in the process
but he loved me --
-- gullibly
from the bottom of his heart
in the middle of the night
never mind my phone history;
all those drunk calls i made
to you
feeding him pretty words
so he could love me
because he didn't understand
he didn't know my words
didn't say much at all.

With age comes wisdom
I'd rather not know anything
Than have to experience the pain
I rather be ignorant
Than be all knowing
Why ?
Because when you don't know anything
All you know is **Happiness

Bury me.
Six feet under.
Don’t cry when you come to visit.

Talk to me
(I’ll get lonely, with all these rotting souls surrounding me)

Plants will grow,
from my decaying body,
weaving through my bones.

Let them stay,
they have made friends
with my skeleton
And creaking soul.