It’s just cruel, you know?
Someone arrives in your life
out of the blue,
someone you never imagined
would so much as notice you.
You get to know them
and the small details
like the small whale shaped scar
on the his upper thigh
and how his favorite word
is a secret only few get to know.
They let you in on their hatred
towards chocolate
and how the only exception to that
are oreos.
They tell you about how
they take a picture of everything
they like, even in their dreams,
and months later you sit trembling trying not to remember how
he use to take offhand pictures of you and, without warning,
it violently hits you
how it has all changed.
Suddenly he’s gone and you’re left with his childhood stories
and his love of the woods,
stuck to the palms of your hands
like super-glue.
You have no place to set it all down, no way to get rid of it.
His favorite songs
and the way his eyes lit up
when he laughed
are painfully imprinted on your skin like colorful tattoos for all to see. You've taken all the pills
from your mother's drawers
but none seem to dissolve the memories that he left on your skin when he last touched you
and no amount of throwing up
could remove the parts of himself
he forgot to take when he left you.
The worst part is
you never really know
when it’s going to be the last time…
the last time you touch him,
the last time you hear his voice
or even the last time
you catch a glimpse of his body.
One day it’s there
and the next it's gone
and you never even
get notified in advance:
"Hey this is it.
You better enjoy it
because it’ll be over in seconds.”

.
A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's the tears that trickle with radiance through words.
     It's a treasure trove that hides but longs to
     be found.
          It's a book shelved high that wants to
          be read.
               It's the freest of all birds caged but
               unbound...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't beat to the capable strokes of the artist.
     It doesn't pump in the most vibrant of
     colours.
          It doesn't wield a paintbrush to
          translate its thoughts.
               But it can see through the eyes of
               painters...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't conform to the conventional parameters of lyrics.
     It doesn't bind itself to the requirements
     of musical harmony.
          It doesn't follow the conventions of
          genres.
               But it sings its voice loud without
               restrictions of melody...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's an open secret, that whispers in metaphoric codes.
     It's an exploding universe, that merges
     back into galaxies.
          It's a sought after painting, that boasts
          of unfathomable beauty.
               It's an everlasting song, that echoes
               within the poet that embodies...

When the girl, I loved, died,
I locked myself in her room
while her parents were in Arizona.

I went through her things
and found
**** photos;
A few where she seemed
ashamed
and a few where she
liked her body.
She had a gummy smile
and in others
she looked down at her *******
while having a blank expression.

I found empty
alcohol bottles.
Cheap bottles of wine
and a bottle of red,
stuffed with tissue paper.

Under her dresser
I found an unopened
letter she intended to
give the boyfriend before me,
where she admitted
to being ***** as a teenager
and how she hoped
it wasn't too much
baggage.

I threw out the photos
and
alcohol bottles,
but not the letter.

I don't know why but I kept it.
I occasionally read it,
because it's her,
and I love her.

I told my friend
and he called me a
Halomaker,
because I made sure
she was remembered
as an angel.

I’m drenched
in the flood
which has yet to come

I’m *******
in the prison
which has yet to exist



Not having played
the game of chess
I’m already the checkmate



Not having tasted
a single cup of your wine
I’m already drunk



Not having entered
the battlefield

I’m already wounded and slain



I no longer
know the difference
between image and reality



Like the shadow
I am

And

I am not

I'm not a typical teenager
I don't facebook things
Or post my life to the world
I don't tweet
Or Twitter
Or all the other
Networks
I don't instagram
In fact
I don't like pictures
If me. I hide from the camera
Hoping no one will
Click the photo button
I don't party
Or stay out late
I sit at home
Watching TV
Or better yet
Cuddling up with a good book
I don't waltz around
In revealing clothes
Hoping for a boyfriend
I don't act all bubbly
I cry and worry
I don't worry about boys
And dates
I worry about depression
And cutting and if my
Friends are really fine

I don't doodle or draw names on a binder
I write poetry on a site called helo poetry
And the only thing that upsets me
About that, is that I didn't find it sooner