The paint on my paintbrush
may have already dried,

but remember, I did not leave you,
even though I died.

Hate the loving one
With all that he is due
Hurt the loving one
Just as he hurt you

Forgive the loving one
Because it is right
And in return you've won
His love, warm and bright

There's a house on the street
There's a room in the house
There's a bed on the room
There's a man on the bed

He has a mind that flies
A soul that blows
A heart that loves
and a force that cries

An idea on his mind
a struggle in his head
the words that he can't find
to express when he'll be dead.

There's a poet in the bed
with the spirit of a child
a spirit driving wild
the end waits just ahead.

So
you're a bad idea
in all ways
and it's true
I play a part
somewhat to blame
but let's just forget about that for a sec
because I want to remain
the good girl
innocent and pure of heart
all intentions correct
and yet
I want to be the bad one
that parents tell their kids
to avoid-
breathing the same air
will result in immediate need
of exercision-
I want your respect,
for you to be a gentleman
but maybe
I just think you're cute.

I write poetry because i am lazy.
Short stories are too long.
Screen Plays are too many people
Actually talking to people is too risky.
Journal-ing will get me no accolades.
Photography is just an app on a phone.
painting is an application on a canvas.
Acting would be fun without a stutter.
Songs are too loud, and singers are pretty.
Dancing would be nice if i had some rhythm.
I write poetry because it's fun and I like it...alot.

We can't always make sense, so we write poetry.
Love can not feed small children, so we get jobs.
Starting fights won't change the world, so we vote.
We can't be kings forever, so we grow up.
Strength won't take the pain away, so we cry.
McDonald's isn't going to pay the bills, so we get degrees.
We can't hide forever, So we got married.

i've been building sentences
for you, because there are
too many words to keep them
stagnant and docile.

oh, words on melancholy smiles,
chipped porcelain and
sunlight dappled through your hair
like the sun herself had
kissed the crown of your head.

i've been writing you letters
inside of my head. little golden
pinpricks of love
seeping through my cells
because my body cannot hold
the very idea of loving you.

in those moments, i am liminal,
held tight by the arch of your spine,
the pads of your fingers,
the way that you held my name
in your mouth before
it rolled off of your tongue and
the smell of your skin
in a dark room, with only
the moon watching us
woefully, sweetly.

words like saccharine and
your name, slow like honey,
taste sweet enough
to make me cry.

i've been stuck on the idea
of loving you, loving me
and wringing my hands
over bad luck, mon petite chou.

and still, you close your eyes,
clasp your hands over your ears
and brush off my words like
dust or snowflakes or
unrequited love.

I feel the caress of my own fingers
on my own neck as I place my collar
and think pityingly
of the kind women I have known.