i find myself thinking a lot about death and what it means to be alive and i wonder if it is ever going to end but if the pain of my short existence is foreshadowing a larger void that i will be trapped in until i end, an inescapable spiral. although i do not have years on my side i know myself, i know my heart, and it leads me to question whether age really does mean wisdom; will i someday learn happiness?

you keep telling me to stop apologising for my own existence and that i shouldn’t be sorry for who i am but i can’t stop i can’t stop how can i believe you when every moment i am awake i feel like hiding, when my actions feel like grenades going off and nobody quite realising the damage until its too late, when i choke back the lump in my throat whenever i see my reflection or think of you how, how, how

i would have given you anything
been your anything
you were my everything
i was all yours
and now i'm just your ***** secret

someday you will ache
your heart will harden and shatter in your chest
and I hope like hell that the person that can hold you together
and warm your frozen bones
isn't 1000 miles away
kissing someone else's skin

and so I surrounded myself in bright colours, and tiny little flowers,
I started going to sleep at normal times and in the morning I would brush my hair,
I learned to smile,
but the truth is,
I still love the rain.

my heart is battered
but it will not break
though I do not know
how much more of this I can take
I adore you

yours were the arms that held me together in the night,
and i was simply a spare blanket to keep you warm.

i would like to be able to pretend that the lines written over my skin are a sad poem of the love i had for you,
a reminder of the pain of heartbreak,
but in reality, they are just ugly reminder that i gave you all of me and you left.

they asked me to write about you
and so i did
i wrote of how i fell
how very hard that was
but when it came to writing
of how little you cared
in comparison to the universe of love i had for you
i could not bring myself to move my fingers
across the keyboard
because how do you explain months of pain
and heartache
in a way that shows it completely
without feeling as though you are reliving it?

i think my biggest mistake was thinking you were the only thing that could make me happy

love is a funny thing
i mean
everyone is capable of being loved
and everyone is capable of loving
but what if you mistake caring
for loving?
and then you are on the receiving end
what then?
continue with a hopeless love,
whom you care for very much,
or love
someone who you love
also?
it is selfish
i'm hovering between the two
and neither know of the other
at least
not how they are in my heart
equally
and painfully.
should not love be who makes you yourself better as well?
going through hell for someone who needs you
no
that is not what love should be.
so for that i'm sorry
if i leave
please do not worry

she's all i want in the world
but she's so so
so
far away
and i'm all she wants in the world
but i'm so
so so
far
away

confession: you meant everything to me.
question: did any of mean mean anything to you?

i don't want to be here
i only want to be *here

you're my world
but i'm not yours

but oh my how empty my bed feels without you,
how empty my heart feels without you,
your absence hurts more than your presence ever did

I had only just finished stitching together the mess of me you
left

Only for you to come back and slowly start ripping me apart
again

there's no one like you
but even still
I will scour the earth
overturn every leaf
just to find a piece of you

first you were mysterious
then you were lovely
and now you're gone
you ****

we are all clusters of atoms
we are each our own little universe
every single one of us

so in that case
I want to be an astronaut

let me explore your universe
let me discover each star
each ocean

show me your galixies
show me your heart

let me hold you
let me hold together your universe
let me combine ours

so that we can be together
if you want

a thought that has never strayed far of late is one of our perception.
take the idea that eyes are the windows to the soul.

now perhaps when we look at someone we are seeing then for who the are. perhaps; but probably not. we create an idea of that someone, often without meaning to or knowledge of it.

then there is the eyes thing.
if we do not know who truly is inside, then perhaps the window is darkened, leaving us mostly with a reflection?

poems are often used to express an idea or emotion
a thought or a plan
or something along those lines

they sometimes have structure
to control the hurricane of feeling
being scribbled on the page

I ask of you
why
if poetry is meant to be from the poet
why follow another's standards?