a lot of people ask who I write for

and mainly it’s really for my girlfriend

I’ve always said that she’s the kind of girl

that makes you write poetry.

it’s to express the endless love

the irretrievable gratitude

and the unconditional happiness I feel.

but it’s also for the broken ones

who desperately want to believe in hope

who have Pandora’s box

wrenched from their hands.

for the crying ones

who need solidarity and a warm cup of tea

overwhelmed and wrapped in a blanket.

it’s also for the 9-to-5’s

who drink when they come home

for those who are simply fed up

and want an escape from it all.

I write to help heal.

for the people out there

who just need to know someone understands.

I write because it’s 4am and

I’m listening to Keaton Henson

and these raw feelings

won’t leave my brain

and won’t let me sleep

so really,

I write

to save myself.

e: everything you do makes my ****** mood turn okay
m: man , you sure look beautiful, like any other day.
o: only you give me butterflies, and believe me thats new
t: this truly is too good to be true but...
i: i... i think i'm in love with you.
o: obviously you've heard that before but...
n: no-one catches my blue eyes like you do.
s: surely we can be something more then friends, or at least pretend.

Holding his hand was like a prayer
and when we kissed I finally saw God
but no amount of getting on my knees could stop Hell from clutching it's burning hands to my throat and no volume of screaming could lead to my salvation.

I tell myself it must have been the devil telling him to love her
instead of me,  
but that won't change the fact that you never were my Heaven.

I like the improbabilities that go with love,
Just as when I held your hand
But never really held it,
As the physicists would oppose to the idea,
Saying that it is because
Of the electrons and stuff, and quantum stuff
Which I find so hard to believe.

(But you, dear, frankly,
You need not make me believe,
Only wonder.)

See, I look
At you, closely,
And closer still as if
Two comets, themselves, defied
The distance of lightyears,
For me,
Just to look back.

You are a star, love, I think,
And I have likened my self to the Universe,
Not because you are near,
But because you are far,
Yet far enough...

So I could love.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

I don't know what to write
I'm tired
Of everything
They say I look so happy
I'm tired
Little do they know
I've trained my appearance
To be the opposite of my
Mind and my soul
I'm tired
You look happy
Well darling the answer is simple
There is a war going on inside of me

You are an attic that my thoughts are still lost in.
Your mind is cluttered with ideas, kindness, secrets and confessions,
all covered under thick dusty blankets of bland conversations.
Every time the sun hit a part of your mind,
you revealed a memory and I like a child
oohed and ahhed at this over told story.

Despite the floorboards creaking “baby you don’t mean a thing” and dust lingering with the goodbye that will never be said,
it was my favorite place.

I would try bringing up my own newspaper clippings and photo albums but there never was enough room in this attic I suppose.

I remember one night I spotted poetry painted on the wall
hidden behind a pile of blankets and your record player voice cracked with the words ‘you're beautiful’ and ‘you're perfect’.
But maybe the words were already painted for somebody else
and You’re voice caught on the vinyl of the moment.

Darling they told me that a family from Utah is
moving in next week,
I hope they treat you well.

Darling the door has been locked and boarded without a warning

beware when you fall in love
with an artist
be it a painter, a singer, or poet

for the artist will
paint you
with strokes and hues
in shapes of every kind

sing about you
with heartbreak lyrics
and feelings which rhyme

write about you
with the simplest words
and a secret message she wants to say

beware of the artist,
and her love
one wrong move
and you're an artwork in her display