Outside of the library,
On a wet, wet day,
You smiled and said
'I love you'
Before walking away
Towards the platform, where you depart,
And I know that I will always feel this way
About you.

You run your fingers through my hair and with them bring
The cool, fresh air that
I have longed for, all throughout the
Winter.

The green flecks and
The blue hues of your eyes
Connect you to this current season:
Springtime.
Through your warmth and light,
You have given me
New life.

I have been told that said eyes are the window to the soul, so
When we kiss we must never keep our eyes closed;
An exchange of hearts for an exchange of souls that will continue, and
Never grow old.

No, she isn't a poet
has never inked one
she takes off my weight
gets my things done

so I have enough time
to afford in a way
the luxury of rhyme
clever wordplay!

No, she isn't a poet
not written one line
clean is her slate
sees I'm fine

so I have enough space
and hour of my own
to indulge the grace
of thoughts mind grown!

No, she isn't a poet
no way she would be
she does her best
to see I'm happy

so my words run smooth
poems are easy born
truth and half truth
are spun night and morn!

No, she isn't a poet
cares not a bit
from her toil's sweat
my poems birth sweet

poems aren't her art
in the sun and showers
she grows from her heart
our garden's best flowers!

Attached
Grasping and clinging, holding too tight
I love you, so make me happy
It’s on you to make things right

Love
A nurturing hold while letting things flow
I love you, so just be happy
If that involves me, simply let me know

sometimes
                                                       ­                         my
                                     ­ brain
                       doesn’t
                                                       ­     work

right
                                                ­                               and

                             my

                                              thoughts

     ­                                         scatter

               ­                                                    like
                               beads

                                     spilled
                               on
                                                              ­                 tile

floor

Attentive eyes
    and nervous jitter,
trembling hearts
await their fate

barbaric practice
of modern acceptation
fear is faced
  in university fashion

Navy blue professor,
    of conductor hands

Every tear we cry
Burns away the fears inside
Our flames grow stronger

they say sad times like these only come during changes of weather, and they blame it on your circadian rhythm. they could be right.

i just know that i don’t like sleeping anymore, because my dreams aren’t dreams, they’re visions straight out of hell. that’s where i’m going anyway, if those things they say are true. (***** little ****, let us fix you, okay? your feelings are only manifestations of the distance between you and your mother. lying is a sin, you can’t lie to god. suicide is sin, and you can't sleep your life away one day you'll awaken, until you don't.) but god, being awake is almost worse.

but there are some bright lights and, i swear, i’ve been holding onto them like my heaven and i love them so much and everything might be okay even if there are times when i can’t differentiate my sad tears from the ones triggered by joy.

maybe it’s okay to be awake, maybe one day i’ll be alright. maybe it’ll be soon. maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe...