I

I wish I’d seen it sooner, you are parallax,
Your lipstick fooled me for so long, you catalyst,
You trapped me in my own heart, you are Calypso,
I kept my fears hidden behind a mental citadel,
You tore it down, your touch was selcouth,
But only to me, you were too beautiful, you are kalopsia

II
Even your fingernails lied, you are kalopsia,
I shouldn’t come down from cloud nine, this parallax
Should’ve been more apparent, not selcouth,
Not how I thought it, you are TNT, a catalyst,
You demolish with your winks, even my citadel
Fell before you, but you still kept me in, you are Calypso.

III
Tell everyone you’re real, you are Calypso,
You are not a myth, you are simply kalopsia,
A breathtaking lie, you didn’t need a citadel,
Nobody could break you anyway, you are parallax,
But you’re evil at all angles, you are the catalyst
Of all things lonely, this no longer feels selcouth.

IV
You are kalopsia, the gorgeous catalyst.
You are parallax, wrecking citadels.
You are not selcouth; you are Calypso.

The ground changed color overnight. What was once green is now white. The trees changed, too. The bark is almost striped; the brown is trying to break through its white covering. And the snow is still falling. Light reflects off the tiny crystals that we know are everywhere but cannot see. Flakes pour from an angel-white sky. The world is in a white-out. The neighborhood children have never seemed so happy to only see one color. Carrot sticks are salvaged and old scarves are thrown around freshly made snowmen. A little girl sits on her father's lap as their sled slides down the *****. The kids down the street are having a snowball fight. Each handful of snow delivers a chill that deepens as it moves from skin to spine, but they don't mind. In this picture-perfect snow globe, white is wonderful.

Watch the snowflakes fall
Catch them on your tiny tongue
Winter has begun.

You bought me bouquets of flowers
Called me up and talked for hours
Your heart, you said, I did possess;
You loved me more, I loved you less.

You slipped letters under my door,
Each one the same: “I love you more.”
A need  for me you did profess;
You loved me more, I loved you less.

You begged me not to leave your side-
Your voice shook, and you did not hide
Your desperation to impress;
You loved me more, I loved you less.

But oh, I could not carry on!
I couldn’t be your little pawn
On whom you’d place a wedding dress;
You loved me more, I loved you less.

Your love clouded the morning sky,
As I lived an enormous lie;
And so, my dear, I must confess:
You loved me more, I loved you less.

I
The sky was brighter when you were four,
You think, but what do you really know,
They say you haven’t any knowledge at ten,
You are too young, maybe when you’re sixteen
You’ll know a little more, about heartbreak,
About driving a stick shift, about life.

II
Maybe when you’re twenty you’ll see life
With fresh eyes, a different “fresh” than four,
You were so young then, what is heartbreak,
You didn’t know, you didn’t know, you didn’t know,
Do you want to understand, do you want to be sixteen,
Or would you rather stay innocent, stay ten?

III
You feel small, confused, you are ten,
You needn’t be, you have a decade of life
Under your belt, but you are not sixteen,
You haven’t driven alone, what is freedom, four
Is young enough to know love, know
Why the sun sets to rise again, but not heartbreak.

IV
It’s a long life, but it’s a short life, you know;
You dismiss four and yearn for sixteen;
Don’t yearn for heartbreak, live for ten.

i wish i hadn't been raised

the way i was

wish i would've been praised

instead of screamed at

or smacked



i wish the memories

weren't so painful

wish the pieces of me

weren't scattered

or that my heart wasn't torn and tattered



'cause maybe if i hadn't felt the pain so early

i wouldn't have thought it strange

that someone wanted to hold my hand, and surely

i would still be with you today.



and maybe it's true,

that i shoulda kissed you

and maybe it's true,

that i wish there was something i could do

and maybe it's true,

that i'm still in love with you,

all i know is that i miss you;

i really, really do.





i wish i could go back

to the moment i let you go

wish i could tell you that

i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i'm sorry.



i wish i hadn't run away

from the thing i loved the most

wish i could hear you say

that i was beautiful, just one last time.

wish you were still mine.



'cause maybe if i had told you i was scared

because fear is all i've ever known,

you would have told me that you cared,

and that you'd never let me go.



and maybe it's true

that i should've kissed you

and maybe it's true

that i wish there was something i could do

and maybe it's true

that i'm still in love with you

all i know is that i miss you;

i really, really do.



every night when i lay down,

i swim in tears until i drown

because i did this to myself

i opened up this violent hell

and i can never go back

no, i can't go back



and maybe it's true

that i should've kissed you

and maybe it's true

that i've always been in love with you

but now there's nothing i can do

except miss you

i'm sorry that i have to miss you

because i left you

oh, i miss you.

Droplets fall, cascade
Around me; I wade
Deeper, inhale, hold my breath.
Fully submerged now,
I ask myself: how
Can such beauty cause one’s death?

The flickering flame,
It hisses your name,
Spells it out in thin grey smoke.
The room is cold now –
I ask myself: how
Will this fix the love I broke?

I am a downpour;
You wanted much more…
After all, you were a fire.
Tried to douse your flame
With some of my rain,
But could not douse desire.

The landscape is a thought thing.
It’s an art thing, but it’s also a thought thing,
because thoughts are art.
Think about it.

As you think about the past and
dream about the future,
you are a painter.
As you work your way toward
a goal, you are
a sculptor.
You criticize your reflection
in the mirror and create
a self-portrait in your head
that would be unrecognizable
to others. In these
moments of insecurity,
you are an abstract artist.
When you try to remember
the face of that person
on the crowded city street
who briefly stole your heart,
you are a
sketch artist.

This is the thing:
you may aspire to be a
business owner,
a doctor,
an author,
an actor,
a dentist,
a professional athlete,
but do not forget that
no matter where life takes you,
you will always be an artist.
You have always been
an artist.

Zero;
You
Xenophilic
Wanderer,
Vastly
Unaware
That
She
Remembers,­
Quietly
Pondering,
Ominous.
Nothing;
Maybe
Love,
Kaleidoscope
Je­alousy,
Igniting
Hatred,
Grieving
For
Everything.
Done;
Can't
Beg­in
Again.