Whats worse
Saying hello the last time
Or introducing myself

Eyes glued
To the unknown parts
Of the ground
Not knowing
That you would be the reason
I write poetry.
The reason
I cant go back to sleep
In the early hours
Or the reason I fall in the woods
And no one
Hears my screams
But only in your dreams
Is where you will find them.

There they are.
Slowly drinking diet coke
Until It dies.
Way to play your part
On making me a better person,
I just wished
You could of taken it eaiser
On the low blows
And the jabs you took
Which gave my heart
3rd degree burns
Which were scrapped
On the closed roads
Of my weaknesses.

Can you please talk quieter?
I'm still trying
To find the reasons
Why I took that pill
To follow your rabbit self
Into the swiss chess
Called your logic.

Now I sit here thinking
What felt better
Saying goodbye
The first time
Or saying good riddance
The last time.

Insert appropriate metaphor here
some flourishing
elegant
representation of
whatever the **** is going on
inside me
because
god knows
if there is one
that I don’t even know
how to talk about
this
whatever
“this” is
maybe if I just put
another brilliant
and articulate
simile here
or maybe an allusion or quote
that perfectly captures
and labels this pain
and fear
yes
that’s it
I feel
better already
isn’t poetry great?

I say I am okay,
but we both know I'm not.
You know what I did last night.
I know what you thought.
You know that I sat there and cried.
You see right through my guilty lies.
I had the blade to my wrist
for the first time in a while, I gave it a twist.
I was so proud. I made it almost a year.
Why did I even bother shedding another tear?
Its because depression isn't a phase,
It lasts forever
No matter how good your life is put together.
You think you're happy, but that's the phase.
Happiness is the act on the stage.

his best friend asked me if i loved him,
and i've never been more positive with an answer,
than when i answered with, 'no,'
and that's what scares me.
(NJ2015) (All Rights Reserved)

he comes to me at three in the morning,
my hair a mess, my feet in slippers,
my attire dingy, but my eyes sparkling.

drunk and tired, hiding behind a tree
so my father won't see; he holds me;
light drizzle and cigarette smoke,
hazy eyes and alcohol breath;
trying to make the best of it.

he's no romeo, and i'm no juliet;
but my parents are Capulets
and he's the dangerous boy
involved with their princess.

sitting beneath a tree
at three in the morning,
no place i'd rather be;

he's no romeo,
but he's all i need.

All Rights Reserved (NJ2015)

Don't you understand? I'm the careful girl who sets her alarm three hours early to guarantee she won't be late. I'm the girl who's scared to use boxed hair dye because there's that one percent chance of a fatal reaction. I'm the girl who gets sick every morning because anxiety tells me that I "might mess up something today." I'm the girl who reads the fine print, the terms and conditions, because one time I didn't, and I got hurt.

You're the boy who see's terms and conditions as guidelines. The boy who drinks every-night because though it's drowning your liver, it's also helping to haze your vision to the flipping pages of the calendar. The day's won't slow down, but your comprehension of it can -and you can live each-night like it's endless. It's harmful comfort has you addicted. A lazy Sunday night is a day wasted; responsibility and real life has never left you feeling as triumphant as that seventh shot of *****. You welcome chaos because it keeps your mind from straying.

Recklessness has a fault, and it's love. Your heart is a liquor bottle that was indulged and tossed to the side by girls too drunk to understand that glass breaks. And glass cuts.

I always read ingredients before I consume, but my tired eyes skimmed, and my heavy heart begged, and so I downed a glass of you. So now here I am, the careful girl, and here you are, the reckless boy, caught in one world that's both hazy and precise.

I'm trying to handle you with care. but you're screaming that there may not be a tomorrow. I've read your terms and conditions. but experience and knowledge are two separate things my naive brain hadn't yet learned at the time. There's more to words than bold letters -there's more to you than bottles and messy hair.

There's a careful girl holding a full bottle of fine wine deciding whether or not to open and down it, or place it in a cabinet to gain value. Thinking that maybe a few sips wouldn't hurt. And who knows if they did? She can't remember.

[NJ2016] All Rights Reserved.

1 hour and 52 minutes
is the longest we've gone
without texting one another back
when we're not busy

but now it's been
2 hours and 11 minutes
and each minute that goes by
feels like hours

and I feel like collapsing
and screaming
and crying

and I feel you
slowly forgetting about
me

-e.w.