it is hard to love someone
while you're grieving
the loss of the person they used to be.

my brother hasn't spoken in weeks.
a headstone reads,
here lies the brother you once had,
and the flowers I placed there are barely living.
I've spent all of my time digging him out of one grave,
only to discover there's an entire cemetery left to unbury.

my mother hasn't smiled in days,
and exhaustion has become
the guest that has overstayed its welcome.
misery usually loves company,
but I am anxious for it leave.

I am homesick for a house
that I once lived in.
I am homesick for a place
where only love grows
from this family tree.

To live and not to breathe, is to die in tragedy.

Is the same as to love and not feel.
Without love, whilst being in love, to die alone.
Without hope, without a smile on your lips.

Without the one person that you have loved your entire life since the day you met them.

To die in tragedy,
Is to die without wiping her tears away with your thumb as you cheer her up after she's had a bad day.
Is to never put that one strand of hair behind her ear and smile into her beautiful eyes.
Is to die without telling her that you love her everyday.

Is to die without the chance to make her happy

She loved him as if she rode on a carousel
the enchantment, the dream, the fleeting reality
of him sitting a distance from her.
No matter how much they moved,
she didn't know how to reach him
or to catch up with him.
Because once the ride ends
she has to grow up and leave,
stepping out into a world
where she's no longer the princess
and he's no longer her prince.
...
To have loved you and have left,
I will never be sure if the time will come
for me to love you again.
But I know the magic will be there
every time "I see you in the night sky
and hear your laughter in the stars"--
that I will always remember.
You don't have to be in front of me
and I don't have to see you
for us to know I love you.
Because "it is with the heart that is essential
but is invisible to the eye".
...
I love you, my prince.
And no matter how many moons are out there,
you're the first I have ventured to and admired from afar:
that make's you my moon.

“Don't you miss being in love?”, she asks.
I simmer, gathering myself  and my thoughts.

No, I don't, because I have not been in love;
Not in the manner I imagine it.
I have loved - beautifully, might I add -
But never have I been in love.

How can I have?
At my best, all I knew was to compel, persuasively,
someone into loving me -
the best possible way I knew how.
I revealed just enough of myself,
the beautiful of myself,
the parts of me that drew butterflies.

Hidden were the broken parts of me,
those which keep me awake, sleepless -
'til the moon kisses me goodnight,
in the last hours before dawn.

I am not, by any means, denying ever loving.
I have loved, blindly and beautifully.
All I have ever been good at was loving -
loving someone into loving me,
the best way possible.

But, all of their love was inadequate.
A love which always fell short of loving me,
the best way possible.

Love; inadequate:
Unable to express loving me,
unable to express themselves of loving me.

In turn,
I was slapped with sloppy efforts of loving me -
Vague inadequacies of love.
It was never enough, not remotely close,
to what I had imaged loving me would be.
It was short of ever arousing me internally,
short of wits to spiral me into being in love.

And so, how can I miss being in love,
when it has always been a feeling that eluded me?
How can I miss being in love, when in love -
I concealed the broken parts of me?
How can I have been in love when I was lonely, in love?

How can I have been in love,
when all I knew of being in love was to love myself -
by loving whomever loved the aesthetic parts of me?

Loving me has always been an infatuation -
an infatuation of the broken pieces of me,
coming together to create an illusion of a love -
an unsatisfactory love for loving me.

How can I have ever been in love when no one has known,
expressed, conjured the best possible way of loving me.
All of me.

Once more, up at the last hours before dawn -
awaiting the moon to kiss me goodnight, I tell her.

This time last year I was writing letters
Apologising for the way I feel
And the way I have always felt
Trying to shift blame onto my own selfish consciousness
And the methods to drown it out
Methods that left more than just physical scars
This year I am no longer writing letters
But every breath is like swallowing glass
My heart beats languid and slow
Every cell of me is fatigued
I sleep all the time and I never feel awake
Fully consumed in the guilt of who I am
And how it must hurt people to love me
So no, I am no longer writing letters
But I am still revising the words.

Humans
Libraries of living knowledge
Flowing, burning, refreshing.

Even the youngest, have the biggest stories to share
Even the oldest, have the smallest stories to tell

We pull knowledge, from all enviroments
At an uneasy unrest.
From the busy streets
From the dangerous nights
Even from the books, right by the candle light

As we live on, as we grow wise, as we pick up things that we will use all our life

Remember to share. To speak, to mean.
Remember to be happy, through thick, even through thin
Our voices, will live, through years and through ages.
Just remember, tread carefully in yours. Or you might pull something, that might stretch from shore upon shore.

Lying on my death bed
Standing on the brink
How would I feel?
What would I think?

Would I feel regret
For the things that didn't get done?
Or was my life complete
Filled with family love and fun?

I wish I wasn't leaving you
I wish that I could stay
My love for you can never die
Lasting forever and a day

When the time has come
When my last breath I'll take
I'll know the love we had was real
Something we never had to fake

I'll wait for you in heaven
Outside the pearly gate
Being together for eternity
Has always been our fate

I found lost
in the symmetry of her diamond eyes
my soul

You're the faintest memory,
But the strongest one.
Ended without a sorry,
Also ended with none.

You're the prologue,
That broke me so bad,
You're the epilogue,
Of the days we had.

You're a short chapter,
But the most memorable one.
What sorrow more sweeter?
When to you I never won.