hey there; have i ever told you: you look like the type that can hold splintered arteries and mend them in a second? i won't let you touch mine, not now, not yet. but i'd like you to know. you're something. something i can't quite place. i might seem like a bother, but i'd like you to know: i'd let you sit next to me & paint my hands on to yours, if you would? color me however you want, just don't go too deep. i'd splatter the marble colors back on to your skin & count the pennies left in my pocket and maybe we can chase the streaming lines above us instead? you're something. maybe something that might fit better in my aching palms than these wavy lines. you've got a diamond laying loosely in those silver-grey pupils. i must admit, i might have taken a dip inside... i might have left paint streaks on their walls, but still... you're something. something i can't *quite place.

I never knew how to ever start writing poems
the stanzas are either too little
or too much
sometimes I give up all together
and lay in my room or stare at the stars in the night sky
(if there were any)

but one thing I do know
is how small the fragments of a broken heart can be
how it shatters and obliterates even before it hits
how the edges are never sharp, but always smooth and worn out
its sad how oblivious the world is
to someone who just got their heart broken
by the one they trusted the most.

His hands,
His hands,
He didn't have the right hands.

They weren't shaped right,
They weren't the right size,
They didn't feel right pressed against my body.
His hands didn't cup my ******* with love.
They didn't look like those of a strong man.

I've dreamed of these hands since I was young,
And I don't know why.
I haven't been able to find the right ones.

The right touch,
The right grasp,
The right hands.

I can see the veins,
Pressing against the surface of his skin.
The small lines sprawled across his palms.
His fingers a certain length,
His knuckles a certain size.
His hands,
The right ones.

Man of my dreams,
Only in my dreams,
His hands in my heart,
His hands the right hands.

I have this horrible feeling
Deep inside my
Stomach
That without me
You might do something
Drastic
And without you
I'm feeling
Like I may do the
Same

Because you're my
Bestest friend
In the entire
World
And I'm so sorry
That I moved
To another stupid state
Just 3 hours
Away from you

Because it's so hard
For me
To see you like this
And I feel like
It's all my fault
Because I left
When I feel like
Without you
I may attempt
To be gone
Forever.

-e.w.

The more you drink
The more I despise.
Never consume it
Because once you do it
you will never go back.
Poison is the definition of alcohol.

To be loved by a writer
Is to be immortalized
You will live on forever in her writing
Your quirks,
Your ideas,
Your insecurities,
Writers notice everything
And we never forget
You might catch her smiling at you
For what seems like no reason at all
But she's just trying to describe
The exact color of your eyes

To be loved by a writer
Is to have your entire relationship in written word
All you have to do is read and re-live everything again
Your first kiss,
Your first fight,
Your first date
Nostalgic memories in chronological order
And you may even learn something you never knew
Since everything will be in her point of view

To be loved by a writer
Is to see her frustration
Because she wishes she could be an artist
Since no words serve you justice
She wishes she could just paint a picture
And then they would understand
Because no amount of words could perfectly depict
Your hair sticking up,
Your abundance of freckles,
You wearing glasses
She gets upset when she thinks
She'll never fully portray all the things you say and do
But she'll never run out of ways to say "I love you"

To be loved by a writer
Is to be eternal
And to never fully disappear
And no matter what, she'll see you everywhere
Even when she opens her mind and escapes reality
Because she is the writer
And you are her writing
For you own her heart
From which her words flow