Before I started draining parts of me
onto this page
I couldn't see for the clearest of paths,
I would dwell,
Hide away in my own safe house
Of saturated stories.

I would scratch my head catching gravity
between my fingertips.
A color would be a rainbow in black skies
of circling crows.

The floor around me would move
dancing along,
It would lead me and my pen to paper
Like a knight's sword to stone.
I would wonder why my mind
Could paint,
My thoughts would explode
into millions of fireflies.

Sometimes I would see the most
flawless imagery
But I couldn't write it down for the awe
of being lost,
Inside my own world of untold stories,
and poetry.

This muse of mine
Remains silent and invisible
And is no less intense for that
I still write to her
Tell her of my dreams and my pain
And she is part of both of these

This muse of mine
May be no more than a ghost
But she is still my only truth
The one that owns me
For all my ****** and damaged past
For all my pointless future

This muse of mine
May be unreal or gone
Yet still I hold on
And still there'll be no other
Because within my muse
Hopelessness and hope
Have me enthralled

                              By Phil Roberts

I want to call you but you don't want to talk to me. Which is understandable, considering every time our hearts collide it seems to leave us shattered.

But for some inexplicable reason I can't pull my mind far enough from you to fill the holes your bullets left in my heart. And the worst part is I'm not even angry, because I left scars on you when you intercepted the wounds that were intended for myself.

It's almost like we loved too hard that we forgot to let the other person breathe but we were scared that loosening the grip would lead to loneliness. And we are so hurt that its being projected onto the other person because its much easier to accept that you drove us apart instead of me.

I knew the words that spilled from my mouth were acid to your skin and they speak more about my insecurities than your downfalls. I drove a transport truck full of all the work we put into us straight into a wall but I tried and couldn't find the breaks.

The saddest part is that I can't even remember why I was angry, I think I was mostly scared of losing you. And I did that day.

Love is a social construct. That isn’t to say you don’t feel it. A decades-old concept of romance has been shoved down your throat since childhood.

When you’re with someone and it’s real, you know it. Real relationships aren’t stereotypical; if your significant other really knows you, they will find better ways to cherish you than roses and chocolates. Real relationships are built from two separate personalities. They’re custom-made. Real relationships don’t fit into a box, so why do we keep insisting there’s only one way to “love?”

No one’s definition of love is the same– no one feels love the same way. Yet, in a conversation about it, you think you’re on the same page. I think this respective feeling transcends that word. I think it’s sad that we all try to express our own separate, unique feeling with the same three words.

I like the way your words taste
not nearly copacetic daffodils
but a boisterous bouquet of
letters tied so neatly
so crisply
that I dare not close my ears
even just for a second
because a time without you in my mind
is one I'd rather leave behind