This is my apology to you,
Read it,
Hate it,
Love it,
I don't care just understand this,

I'm sorry for who I am,
I'm sorry I don't understand basic social behaviours,
I'm sorry that I am selfish,
I'm sorry that I don't care,
I'm sorry I don't call,
I'm sorry I don't ask if you're okay,
I'm sorry that I get anxious to ask,
Unsure if I will regret asking,
I'm sorry for crying out loud,
I'm sorry for not listening,
I'm sorry that I question everything,
I'm sorry that you have to repeat everything,
I'm sorry that I never get it,
I'm sorry for hurting your feelings,
I'm sorry for being sorry for myself,
I'm sorry for murmuring,
I'm sorry for being afraid of you,
I'm sorry that I text other people and not you,
I'm sorry that I don't show that I love you,
I'm sorry that I don't consider your feelings,
I'm sorry for sending you this,
I know that it's just words to you.

I gaze upon your beauty
Breathtaking in its wonder
I lie nestled in exquisite solitude
Beholding your majesty
King to my Queen
In hushed reverence
Dominating my vision
Noble in simplicity
I surrender myself to your moment
Giving up my heart
Abandoning all sensibility
Knowing you will never forsake me
Lulled by the gentle flooding
Of desire to never leave this place
Or your fascination

(C) Pixievic

The beautiful visage 
eyes dark as ebony,
innocent and large

How subtle her features seemed,
under the soft light they gleamed
Lips stained with a cherry tint,
I wonder how hard she had sinned.

A crimson river flowed down my body 
Everything was blurry
Even her smile looked weary
But veneer with vanity.

The delicate hands held a knife
Because that was 
her way of conquering my life.

When you left you took my heart
And I let you
Because I thought it would be easier
Not to care
But it doesn’t work that way,
And without it I am so dead inside
My body is a skeleton
Filled with crumpled leaves,
Hardened flowers,
Distant emotions, and fading memories
They subside like tidewater out to sea
I feel nothing, am nothing
Not even a ghost
Just a barely breathing being,
Dying six feet under the surface

If I had something inspiring on my mind don't you think that I would've written it by now
I love being a writer but sometimes it gets me down
The pressure escalates like the water in the everglades to top myself, like pulling miracles out of my head is a miraculous act
I can't turn water into wine And I can't turn stacks of hay into clever punchlines
I guess what I'm trying to say, like Dr. Mccoy  is that I'm a writer not a magician
I can only take what myself and others have gone through, and turn it into something relatable, that maybe just maybe someone will take something positive out of what was written