Fall in love with a man who's good with words;
Who tells you there won't come a time he won't be around,
But as the days turn to months and the months turn to years,
As you choke back your tears while you drown in your fears,
He is nowhere to be found.

Fall in love with a man who's good with words;
He'll find 100 different ways to say that he loves you,
Each one sweeter and more heart-tugging than the last,
Watch him use them for his own manipulation,
Up until he decides that this is it, that his "love" has come to pass.

Fall in love with a man who's good with words;
He'll express how he hates seeing you sad, making you cry,
But like a stubborn child, he never learns from his mistakes,
Protecting his ego and his sense of pride,
when all you wanted was to see him try.

Fall in love with a man who's good with words;
He'll need you to know that he thinks you're a goddess,
And oh, will you believe his overdone flattery,
But realise this: once he's done and he's gotten what he came for,
Every single flaw and secret will be made into a mockery.

The same voice that sang you praises,
will be shouting words shaped like knives aimed at your heart.

The same tongue that formed you personalised spoken poetry,
will lash out at you,
further crumbling the pieces he promised to put back together.

The man who's good with words rarely means them,
He's mastered them because they are all he has to offer, all he has to bring to the table,
But still you need to fall in love with him and his words,
So you'll know how to treasure the man who doesn't need them.

rewind; replay
    we're standing in a canopy of sunlight
    and laughing, constantly.
    our faces are tired of moving up
    but our eyes are used to crinkling;
    they fold, and shut, and open like buds
    with the spread and shrink of our grins, in
    and out, with our lungs.
Pauze. Zoom.
    Your nails are chipping now, but
    You're really a halfwit,
    So that doesn't deter you the least bit
    From scratch-scratch-scratching at their shook ends:
    They fall apart as we fall out.
    We're spinning, we're dizzyingly quick,
    Hurtling at the speed of 28,800 kilometres an hour; we're brisk
    At best. (Inconceivable at worst.)
    And I can feel, already, you slipping away.
    You're outside of my grasp; you're far out.
rewind; replay.
    We're ripping at the seams;
    Our faces are like bad make-up
    That doesn't move with our smiles;
    Our eyes stay impassive,
    Uninterested at best. Incensed at worst.
    The crinkles in their corners are crusted
    And new folds form on the frowns of our foreheads.
    We're smothering each other in pillow talk and blankets.
Flash-forward, play.
    We're bathed in rain, we're in a
    Canyon, in a chasm.
    We don't know salt from wound
    Or snake from bite. We
    Bring out the worst in our best selves.
    We're drowning in suitcases and bedding.
    We let it fill our lungs and we
    Don't look back.

I almost wrote a poem
saying it would be
the last one
I ever write for you.
                   I almost meant it.
But I reside in a forest of words
I long to lay upon your feet.
You are the only tenant.
Though I have already seen you hunger
for a wood more abundant with beauty.
You yearned
for the abstract; the colorful.
This is where I failed you, love,
for all I have to offer
is the pattern of my handwriting
against a bleak sheet of paper.
How is that to contest
a canvas
that turns heads
with its baby pinks and powder blues?
So I lay here
in the woods
that swarm with lost things,
longing to see the sun again.
And I am always reaching
      and reaching
             and reach i n g
But I am never quite there.
I lay still in the forest
with an abundance of almosts.

Time has stopped without you here
In your absence I hold you dear
The intensity grows into the night
With only the void to speak of my plight

You run around with looks that could ****
And yet like stagnant water I remain still
The cutting of ties you grew accustomed to
In my place they are all completely new

So forgive me for forgetting the days
For reality itself has become such a haze
I know the clock will one day start again
Or that's what I say to take away the pain.

Every morning, I wake up and tell myself to seize the day, and every evening, I'm still where I started: happiest when daydreaming, worst when living.

So I'm trying to write this out, as if it will help.
To write from the heart, or straight from the mind, as they say, but my fingertips and realm of feelings don't always connect to one another.
But here it is, How I Feel:
It's like an itching beneath my skin,
one I can't scratch unless
I peel it off and claw at veins.
It's a pain in the chest, that doesn't lift.
It's a restless sleep, half awake, half not.
It feels disgusting inside, like I'm tangled, mangled up.
It all feels disconnected. Like this Is Not Real.
Like the wires to reality have been severed.

It's the Big Cliche.
What can I do to make my feelings original?

I'm just smiling on the outside, to make it up to you,
to pretend, again, but I hold two conversations
simultaneously, one in my head
and another with you.
It feels like I can't move.
But I do and I don't want to.
There's a world out there,
but I'd rather be in my head, but maybe it's that which makes it all worse.
And yet going out only makes me feel more useless.

Look, how I've descended into whines and plain language. I guess this mind's just not poetic enough to make these feelings look pretty.

The problem is is that the problem doesn't go away.
It won't get better because I keep scratching at it,
it's out of my control because it will inevitably happen, there is nothing that will make it go away.

That double is. It's ugly. But how do I operate on language and make it work my way?

But these are excuses, everyone else's and mine too. Just stop worrying, as soon as you get on with it,
it will be over.
Smile, it might never happen.
(It has.) (It will.)

Yet here is the Problem, the Contradiction.
I don't know what I want.
It's wandering aimlessly, looking for approval and appreciation that I can't take when it's given. Everything feels tacky, everything feels bad.

Life's like a gift shop.
It only looked good when I was seven.

It's like being crowded, when nobody's near.
Don't touch me, don't talk.
I'm making monsters from all the bad I can find.
I'm running from the things I've made with my own hand.
I could explain, but take it as you will.
(Can you guess?)
(I bet you can.)

And these are just images I've described so many times before.
But they're the ones that stick like worn out phrases in conversations.
Dead metaphors.
It's like itching, like mosquitoes
have landed beneath my skin and are eating me alive.

I'm torn between wishing today was over or hoping it will stay to put off tommorrow. Just go with it, I try to tell myself and nothing happens.

People tend to hide away from storms
Seal their windows, close their doors
Never did it cross my parents' minds
They raised a child who didn't conform

As I would watch my little light show
I saw traces of you in the cracks in the sky
And while you are in everything I know
This resemblance was eerie

The lightning that threatens to strike the ground
Just like you, it makes my heart pound
Harmful, deadly, to be feared
And yet one of the only things that ever brought me out of the gloom

The growling thunder that refuses to be ignored
Much like your voice resonating in my ear
One year, two months
And you're very much still here

I guess what I never quite registered
Is how with storms come tragedy
Only beautiful from afar
Not when its where you are

If only I ran like the others as you were approaching
I wouldn't have been burnt to a crisp
Soaked in my sorrows
Unable to forget your touch on my skin

But honey, you're long gone
And I still haven't looked away
Hoping for our chance encounter as new faces
Maybe tomorrow, if not today.