Scars are there to remind us of memories,
Painful, harsh, depressing, or not.
They are there for us to ponder, and give thought.

These scars are there to forget what we went through,
But still bear the marks and scorns of time.
Their phosphorescent glow, they seem to shine.

A way to bring us back down to reality,
A way to resemble the past,
What dark shadows and thoughts we have cast.

Accidental, mutilations, carefree times of glee,
These scars are the price we pay,
And memories of what our body has to say.

Beauty: they say, is a perfectly crafted thing a small dose can throw us into a spiral of bliss.
That small piece we are allowed must be spread out evenly across the whole of our lives. We must treasure it when we have it, and when it disappears be thankful for when it was here.
Although, if we take it for granted, or take it all at the same time, it will not last.
And we will be left broken; for we are so fragile in comparison.
That small share we are given, if taken all at once, can be dangerous. Thus; leaving some broken hearted, perhaps permantly.
And those, who take it all at once or are unfortunately handed to them, are due no more beauty.
And stay sad forever.

Blinding and beautiful-
all senses fail
obscuring ignorance;
let darkness prevail

Let's rewind
Time slips through my fingers
In due time
We were all once dreamers

I missed my connection
Back to reality
I now drown in reflection
Searching for causality

This is emptiness
This is home
This is hopelessness
This is being alone

Why would you build individual constructs
If they were meant to exist in pairs
Watching them suffer until self destruct
This just doesn't quite seem fair

If there really exists someone holding the blueprint
I can promise they're not merciful
We are not children but toys built for convenience
To help time pass for the immortal

You kiss your bottle
like the sweetest lover
you've ever had,
pouring out your secrets
in the middle of
the night,
whispering tender words
to this bottle
that has replaced
the significant people
in your life,
the only thing that
provides comfort anymore
is the bottle at your lips.

In my head
I imagine the future to be
Lipsticks lined on a marble counter
According to color and mood
And clothes warm from the dryer
Because they didn’t cool in the car
And heartbeats under bedsheets
Imported from Milan
Where no clothes are scattered
Because we always remember
To hang them, properly,
(The way we’re supposed to).
And in my head
You wear a sweater
And I brew tea
In an electric kettle
On a spotless counter
In a kitchen scrubbed clean
Except on the stove
Where a smudge of chocolate
Here and                             there
Reminds us of
The night before
And you see me clearly
With curious eyes
And I see you exactly as I did
When we first met
On our third date
When you asked me
If I would, please, finish your plate.
And I imagine the future
And I adore the order
The absence of terrifying smudges
Of chaos
Against a marble façade of
Rosy (or pink. or sparkle.) perfection.
I crave the
Nights spread over soft, warm sheets
That I call mine
And warm lips that wake me
Only when the sun is just right
So I see the mischievous sparkle
In your half-closed eyes
Before you tickle me awake.
And in my head
I long for this,
For the perfection of a
Practiced hand.
I want to build myself
Like my mind builds worlds
With one smooth stroke at a time.

But I do admit
As I lay in jersey sheets
That I do quite like
The way the soft lamplight
Falls over my cluttered bedspread
And how my books are stacked
One
Two
Three
Against my bookshelf
Rather than inside it
(The way it’s supposed to.)
And I am fond
Of the sheer lavender cloth
Thrown haphazardly on the lampshade
And tied with a purple cord
From a graduation I can’t clearly remember
And have every desire to completely forget.
And I will rise
On an overcast day
To the cold lips of sea air
On sheets made from
Recycled materials
And I will stand on aching bones and trod
With a limp and a frown
To the stovetop kettle
And I will brew tea
To the gentle hum of the fridge
That was here when I moved in
And I will be wearing
A robe with no cord
And a face with no grin
But I will look to the sky
And see the sun promised in the
Nebulous lining of the silver clouds above
And I will smile and
Stretch my arms
And see myself clearly
With selfish, curious eyes
Amid the ***** pots and pans and I
Will find peace
In chaos.

If your voice was an island,
it wouldn't be Hawaii,
even with your warm breath and your soft touch,
it would be more like Iceland.
Your durable skin, and your sturdy mind,
your voice would be Iceland.
It cools me down, and it sometimes heats me up.
Much like a candle our love flickers and shines,
but it can also burn and hurt.
People always say love grows over distance,
but sometimes the distance grows to stress,
and sometimes the stress can grow into an island
and your relationship winds up being two beaches that never meet.
But our love will not do that.
Our love, will grow the forest in between,
our love will sustain.
Our love, will become like a statue
that doesn't wear like the greek ruins
or turn colors like the Liberty.
Although, right now it is just as simple as a daisy,
anything can destruct it, or simply pick it,
but nothing has, and soon we will grow into a field,
and others will look and see our love is
warm, soft, durable, and sturdy.