Today is a good day for creation. It is a mellow day.
The light filters through my window, soft and grey.
It is eleven thirty in the morning, not quite noon, but still hazy,
like it should be early.
Like nothing has happened yet, but something is coming.
Something good is going to happen.
I want to sit and sing and listen to music and create. Write. Paint.
Play music with my untalented hands.
I have the drive, that imagination, but i can't think of anything that fits in this time, so i am describing what i am feeling.
It is nothing special, but it is everything and anything special all at once.
A moment when i just want to lay down and look at the sky,
Lay on may back and stare at the clouds.
I get that feeling a lot. Mostly during spring.
But now it is autumn.
Perhaps it is a coping mechanism.
I want to be a great writer, but how can i be a great writer when nothing i write is great, or memorable, or organized?
I cant even produce decent prose when in a perfect environment.
And when i can't focus i just get caught up in my thoughts and i can't do anything about it and i am so...
I am so...

so nothing.
And nothing i ever write makes sense.

I teeter back and forth at your will,
Stuck in a limbo of who I should love.
Sometimes I want to kiss you so badly,
I want to hold you close to me,
Pull your shoulders into mine.
But I know that it can never happen.
Your heart belongs to someone else,
And mine is out for lease at the moment.
That one; I care for him so much,
But I will never be able to stop loving you.
Your eyes have the universe in them;
My life dances at the ends of your fingertips.
For so long, you have enchanted me,
And forever, we will remain in this limbo,
Waltzing intimately with despair,
As he and I have become quite close recently.
In the wake of the storms you bring me.

fall back into the midnight grass
where are you?....... it doesn't matter
lie still as your luminescent irises reflect
glittering pinpoints in the night sky
graph them all in your gridded mind
a glorious correlation of novas and dark mist
calculations in the cold
PAIN as a star explodes spontaneously
light years away, undetectable
to most
but PAIN ONLY PAIN as your lungs…
they explode inside you
an unpredictable gone unmeasured.
your frozen head falls
90 degrees
shattered cochlea inches off of holy ground

Do you ever look at the trees and think
About how
they wouldn’t be alive without the sun
Do you ever feel the breeze and think
About how
It wouldn’t exist without the sea?
I do.
And Every day i look in the mirror and think
About how
You’d probably be better off without me.

For a few months,
you’ll think you’re making progress;
don’t fool yourself,
You haven’t even started.
Everything will smell like him.
Your pillow,
your clothes,
even the air.
You'll even still have their cards and photos
lined upon your bedside table.
You'll get drunk,
and you'll send them poems you wrote,
and songs that remind you of them.  
They'll tell you you’re a good writer,
and this will be the last real thing
they ever say to you.
You'll find you won't be able to write
if it's not about them,
they still plague your mind,
your thoughts,
and your dreams.
The first poem you write that’s not about them
will feel like victory at last.
It won’t be.
They'll always find a way
to slither back into your words.
Your friends will keep listening to you weep,
as they weep over the one that got away too.
They come and go in the middle of your favorite songs,
between each beat you see their smile,
and their beauty in every piece of art;
their beauty in every stroke.
Whenever someone asks you what your favorite color is,
you just want to say 'their eyes'.
They light up like a lake in twilight,
like the moon you shared your first kiss below.
You'll want to go back there for closure.
You still haven’t done it yet.
You aren’t ready to let go.
If you do go you know it'll only make it worse.
And for the rest of your life,
you will be hoping to meet someone
as magical as them.
Every soul that catches your eye,
you won’t really be looking at them.
You’ll be searching for them.
You’ll never find them again.

What is special about love?

When they don't care for you,
But they're all you can think of?

When you begin to think,
Am I not enough?

This is the love in which
You'd give your all for that person with every action,
The love where you care so deeply
But they only return a fraction,
and they just...

...kinda care.

It is the most painful form of love.
Worse than the unrequited.
Worse than the forbidden.

It is the not-enough.

The you-don't-measure-up.

Where the person you'd go to hell and back for
hardly notices when you're down.
Only slightly cares when you're not around.

The not-enough.

The why-do-you-care-so-much?

Where the person you'd stay up to listen to
Until your eyelids force themselves shut
Only listens when it is convenient for them too.
You may think they care too, but...

This is the not-enough,
Where you are never enough.

And this is love.

But it is destruction.