the sound of a wave lapping,
summer thickens

and suddenly everything is
vaguely surreal, under the
hidden stomach of the stars

ghosts of silver struggle
in the white light.

when the water splashes
little islands croon.

love, rescues me from
the millions of pieces
where i lie scattered.

you will never be what I need but constantly seem to be what I want,
and I don't understand why.
you are fire,
and I like to play with matches.
you could burn me 100 times
and my common sense would still be blinded by whatever this twisted excuse for love is.
I will no longer allow my heart to be scorched.
for so long I was afraid to be water,
but here I am now-
ready to dwindle your flame.

Whisper into my ear all the words you wish to say.
Whisper into my ear all the secrets that you hold.
If you are too scared to speak the truth, write me a poem.
Hide your feelings in metaphors, write your heart's desires into illusions.
Tell me how your heart beats in metre, so late at night, when the night is still-
when there is nothing to hear, but a faint heartbeat,
I know it's yours, yearning for me.

Almost, maybe- not quite there.
Sometimes, never,
Never always.
Yo-yo, back and forth.
Not quiet steady.

Goodbye my almost lover.

Where has my creativity gone?
Sometimes I think I can taste it in the back of my throat, typing out all the words I should have said on my tongue.
Sometimes I can hear it in my head, making of mockery of who I am and what I've done.

My creativity has been stolen.

Wanted: The creativity of a lost and disturb 17 year old.

Please return it ASAP, I'm sort of lost without it.

he's got slits for eyes,
they wander about, in search for something
to satiate his bustling curiosity.

he's got a thirst for life,
he is attracted to painted alleyways,
he listens keenly to anyone who speaks in the hopes of gathering a story to tell.

he's constantly moving around, speaking in tongues,
his breath smells like summer, his eyelids are heavy ,
his hands are ink stained and he is desperate to create.

and i'm not one to draw or paint; but to me,
there is artistry in the swing of his hands,
there is poetry in his stride, his kindness, in his mousy speech,
there is a story in his sunlit bedroom, his drafts and scribbles,
the type of spectacle worth capturing in a photograph.

his art is merely a reflection
of the beauty contained in his being.