The noise never falters away,
What it is, I cannot say.
It plays in my head like a twisted song,
It tells me what I am doing wrong.

Sometimes it seems to play aloud,
And I question why others don't see its shroud.
But my mind is what is slipping,
The seams are tearing, ripping.

I am not crazy. But I do suffer.
I tell myself to be tougher.
But words are nothing in the face of fear.
They are nothing to stop my tears.

I dream of silence, it seems grand.
I dream of a different time, different land.
Books take me far, I escape it all.
But one day, I might still fall.

it* has been coming back
every night
and I had to make sure
I was still alive

don't leave me alone
this blade
against my skin
feels very cold

don't leave me alone
the puddle of blood
scares me
when I look at the floor

don't leave me alone
or it will consume me
and what's left of my soul

don't leave me alone
I can hear the sirens
and my eyes
are starting to close.

Sometimes I think of long lace hemlines, following a trail of white petals

and tree branches arching to form a dome,

sunlight dappling the green leaves like stained glass in a cathedral

But that’s not what I dream of.

Instead, I dream of black nights that turn into dim mornings

where we crowd the couch

And you play your guitar while we sing, voices cracking

and when we look at each other with blood-shot eyes,

we can’t help but laugh.

I dream of rain slapping our skin when we run, arm in arm, for cover,

my jeans are soaked, I shake from the cold, but your hands are warm

I dream of alarms ringing in the apartment, smoke billowing from the pan,

Because I burned the eggs again, the steam and smell of soap and grease

when I scrub the pan and make toast instead–

and you insist you don’t care—

but I make up for it with coffee later.

I dream of long trips, arms out the window and arguing over who’s going to drive

or who gets the radio station this time

because I’m tired of your folksy rock and you really,

really don’t want to listen to Beyonce

but we both do it anyway.

If I dream of a white dress, it has stains from the coffee we shared.

If I dream of petals, they’ve been drenched by rain and torn and trampled by our dancing.

Don’t tell me what I dream of isn’t beautiful because it’s messy and flawed.

For a thing of joy is a thing of beauty forever.

Entertaining
thoughts of you
gives my muses
a taste of what
"could have been"
and that drives
them insane

If I gave you earth, you'd pollute it.
If I gave you the ocean you'd freeze it
If I gave you land you'd plow through it.
Just how I give you love and you neglect it.

Any love I've ever found has escaped, like I captured it against its will
Only wanting me when you're drunk
Only wanting me when it's night
Only wanting me because I'm close
Only wanting me because you thought I was something else

Never enough. Not yet. I know I'm more than this but somehow my feelings just keep getting twisted and stepped on and it's making me feel bad
It's making me feel bad
It's hurting me now

I really loved you
I really tried
The same lips you kissed me with
Told me goodbye

Fall in love with a writer
they say and you will never die (quoted)

Fall in love with a writer
they say and you will find yourself
embodied in words

Fall in love with a writer
they say and you will find yourself
stretched over lines and pages

Now,

What if a writer falls in love with you?
What happens is that their untamed mind
becomes an asylum where
words smash themselves
on the walls of their brains
summoning
their hands just
to let them out

What if a writer falls in love with you?
What happens is that their addiction
to falling in love is amplified
and when they love
OH THEY LOVE,
they get a certain high
that numbs their inhibitions to reality
and shuns logic to a very far away land

they  reach a mental state
that lifts you to high enough
just to see a glimpse of their world
just to taste a drop of their
potion
but not all of it

What if a writer falls in love with you?
What happens is that their eye *****
birth and harness flames that burn the coldest
of hearts and warm the strongest
of selves

What if a writer falls in love with you?
What happens is that their mind soaks up
every bit, every breath
every call, every cell
every touch, every talk
just to embroider it
in the quilt of thought
that's weaving endless stories about you
in their mind

What if a writer falls in love with you?
God have mercy on their soul
for their craving becomes dangerously
intensified, wrapping itself
to their muses,
giving them the sole purpose
of existing

For the more they love
the more stories they write
and more they feel
the longer
they
live

I’m slowly rebuilding walls
that I had let fall to let you in.
For you’re starting to taste bittersweet,
and I’m afraid I won’t be able to get rid of your flavour.