Trust is a foreign word
If the voices inside
Are louder than truth

If God
is love
then I really
need to tell you
how intensely
I experience
God
when you're in
the room.

Dear Self,
It's a lot lonelier at night.
It's a nightmare ready to unfold and I'm gripping my bed sheets hoping I don't wake up in yet another cold sweat.
The void in my chest seems to grow as I look for something that makes sense.
The words used to hold me as I wept and now,
They stand at arms length and allow me to hold myself.
They watch as the tears fall across my cheeks and they question how much sadness can a person hold.
How much sadness until all you feel is nothing, but hollowness.
Hollowness that resembles a field of grass burned to ash.

as the flower bloomed
brighter days were promised
in love letters and hopeful kisses
everything…

everything fell in to place
because finally
we made and experienced
something so beautiful
so pure
so lovely

as it grew — matured
we thought of futures
our jaded happy minds
longed to embrace

but as the flower wilted
we turn back to the time it bloomed
forgetting to take out the ****
neglecting its need of water
asking what ifs
losing trust

we failed to realise

that its destroy

did not start when it bloomed

it started when we first planted it

and then we realised

it was planted on toxic soil

we began to realise,

it was never beautiful in the first place

I seem to have
lost
form and structure
and spark
and fire
and the words
won't come when
I call

Is this what it's
like to be alone?
To be without?

Where are the words
when I need them most?

you spend so much
time
writing poems
in the form of
love letters
to memories
that you can't be
one hundred percent
sure
ever existed
in the first place

play your stringless
guitar and shout
at the sky
words previously
unheard by
God himself