And if you're still awake at 3am, not sure of who you are anymore,
Darling, I will read every poem that I had written since the day that I met you
To remind you that my chest will always be your home,
My thoughts; your bed
And my heart is a graveyard to all your ghosts
If you get lost,
Run, run as far as you can
Until you find yourself
And remember that my arms are always open for your return.

life is a painting
of something beautiful
explaining us to ourselves
on a wall
in a building burning down

and we stand there
mesmerised.

It took me too long
To find out what was wrong
Imagine the shock that I felt
When I figured out it was me all along

i am a body bag
full to the brim of
inadequacy, sure to sweep
you away with the same
seventeen words, all
bruised like ill-handled
peaches at the end of summer
as the farmers saunter off
towards fall's freshest fruits.
i bled green because envy
seeps from my pores; i lived a thousand
lives and still they all mix
together in monotonous shades
of gray.
we live and live and live
and get hurt; i have been
hurt but yet i cannot say
i have lived. which realization
is the more bitter?
in what world are these
two things never hand in hand?
i am weak and bitter and
poor where i am to be
rich.

The poet stirs the
rain drops, the sky bends and folds
an old cat stretches.