What If I said that you're my universe?
That even though you don't know me,
The thought of you ignites solar flares in my mind.
What If I told you you're my universe?
That even though you've never met me,
Every dream I have of you, volcanoes erupt in my soul,
What if I showed you my universe?
Where every particle of my being revolves around you.
Where the though of losing you proves cataclysmic
Though I, never had you to begin with.
What if I asked you to build a new constellation with me?
Let your name be stained across starry skies,
So I can, sleep through the day
And stay up late each night just to look at you.
My universe,
Mercy me please.
I am begging on my knees.

© Deneka Thomas . All rights reserved

there are moments when i think i want you more than i want hot chocolate on a cold winters day or a nice book to read and warm tea when its raining out. moments i think i want you more than seeing my favourite band live, moments that seem so tangible i could almost grab them out of my mind and form them into something real. there are moments that i feel like i need you or your comfort more than i need the clothes on my back, more than i need the shelter on my head. there are moments when my chest begins to tighten and my lungs begin to close, moments where i think that i can't breath, moments where i wonder how i havent died yet. there are moments when i begin to fill my head with dreams higher in the clouds than the airplane we flew on goes, moments when i feel like i need him more than the soil needs water. there are moments where i realize how lonely i am and how sad i am because of it, moments where i realize that everything i want is too elaborate in my own mind, that the plot line of this fails every time because it is already written in my head and erased in yours.

there are moments where i sway from love to hate, from happiness to tears. but i read somewhere that means that you really love someone; someone who makes you experience that. and i think about that a lot.

You may think I'm crazy,
but I find it one of my only talents to look at something mangled and torn
and to find a sort of beauty in it.

You look at a corpse and say what vulgarity, but I say what peace.
They have finally escaped this game of a thing we call life, and are
free to have a silent mind.

Insanity is darkness's best friend.

You see, when you die you go back into the earth
unless you are preserved in a room full of cold tools designed
to dissect you - cells trying to understand cells:
competition exists even in the most minuscule forms.

There is no beauty to that. There is scarcely beauty in the human race
except in the faces that are forced to smile everyday against their will
and in the hard determination of hearts that want to give up.

I find beauty in the broken ones. I find beauty in the soil covering
back the flesh that it has created in contagion with the stars above
and the universe held together by the small particles that make up
who I am.

Don't tell me that a girl crying herself to sleep is not beautiful,
don't tell me that a boy crying in a hall is not beautiful, do not tell me
that these are ugly people and that bags under their eyes are just another
sign of weakness; because really, the bags under their eyes are large
spheres of purple designed to tell the story of late night thoughts and
struggles -- the bags, the stretch marks, the scars, the tears, the dripping
mascara, the screams, the gasping for air

They are there to remind us of the effects of sadness -- and in that way,
of beauty. Don't you see? They form the masterpiece which some of us
call ourselves. They each tell a story, and when we die, they die too. They
follow us unwillingly to remind ourselves of the past because who are we
without masks and secrets, lies and hateful treacherous thoughts?

We are nothing, that's what.

And that is not beautiful. That is hell.

I don't care
what your
intentions or
concerns
may be.

At this point,

I no longer
want to be
a part
of your
outcome.

Lately, I've seen poems trending about how no one should fall in love with a poet, nor should they make a poet helplessly fall in love with them. However, something no one has mentioned yet is what occurs too often: stealing from a poet.

When a poet writes a poem, that poem is the perfect combination of metaphors and imagery created by them for you -- a compilation so beautifully intricate that you can get lost by reading merely a few words, overtaken by an empathetic tide that you did not think would come to the corners of your eyes when you sat down and opened your book or tab or paper.

This is the beauty of poems; they express words that many cannot say in any other variation of any way. Ask a poet to describe their emotions and they will beg you for paper and pen, a computer and a keyboard. And these poems eventually combine to become a part of the poet.

The poems a poet writes become a part of themselves.

That being said, it is not okay to take away from a poet what is rightfully theirs. You do not steal from a poet because you are searching for an idea, or because you would like to go trending. Stealing is not poetry. Stealing is not beautiful.

We are a community of people with a love more affable for poetry than for ourselves, and we should all respect all the pieces, because if we do then we are accepting and respecting each other.

So I ask you from the bottom of my heart, do not steal from a poet any longer if you have, or at all if you have not. Your pieces are your own raw emotions, not mine. My pieces are my own raw emotions, not yours.

You loved me when
   I was loved by everyone else

but when I was lonely,

*you only made me lonelier.