The daffodils;
Pristine yellow
With a soft white hue.
A cup for the fairies
Evening tea for two.
Dancing in the peaceful breeze
In a synchronized tango with
The deciduous trees.

even if the moon steals his light from the sun
at least he glows bright in the darkness-
at least he gleams at all
at least he swims across the sky
unlike i, who barely glisters,
who barely drowns in the black noise of night

i'm not saying he doesn't deserve it
but i'm not saying he does.

she's one of those girls who will
turn you into a cliché
she'll trace her fingers across you
and suddenly you're waking up
and suddenly you're here
and you've suddenly realized
maybe the world isn't such a bad place to be

i fancy myself a poet,
but really, i'm just a
sad person with an
outlet.

lets make poetry with
no words-
just our lips and teeth

let me write lines in
violet ink
across your pages

let me hold onto our
paper poems
with fists clenched tight

let me leave creases
in the best parts
and let me write out
our favourite lines
over and over again

snip me into strips.
re-arrange my lines and
diction into one of your
manic-pixie-found-poems.
black out the most important
parts of me with messy sharpie
and paste me onto some photo,
whose irrelevancy adds to the
romantic air you were trying
to achieve.

then read me to glassy-eyed
existentialists looking for life-meaning,
and display me on your wall
affixed with haphazard masking tape.
love me like this.

turn me into a forgotten love poem.

I am canvas
Paint me
Cover me over and gild me
Grace me
With your glare
Turn me gold with your stare
Gather me, dust, and
Press me into diamond
Make me better
Turn me kind

I wrote a poem about you in my mind.
It was short and snappy and sure to hurt.

Why?

I still love you
and nothing can change that.