Now is the time,
When I realize that all that walking
All that sobbing,
All that pillow hugging,
Is because I probably have depression.
Or my life is just a pile of shattered glass,
Not easily fixed.
It needs help from the outside world.
Will the world help me?

It's been a while
Since I opened my lips,
And wrote the sweet words
With a voice that drips,
Sincerity.
Clarity.
Charity,
Hardly ever disdain in this voice
Of mine,
But plenty of it,
In the race of mankind.
It's been a spell
Since I wrote poetry well,
And where's my mind?
Neither in heaven nor in hell.
But on poetry,
How sublime

I'm wearing stripes on top
With a black skirt
And a band of elastic
Across my waist.
I'm squished into this dress.
Not that it's uncomfortable,
It's just...uncomfortable.
I'm sitting in the backseat of a car
Mom wears polka dots on my right
My dad in a black shirt on my left.
We all press each other's elbows into each other,
Leaving indents.
I'm squished into this car.
And it's kind of uncomfortable.
My dad's hairy arms prickle and tickle me.

I'm the one starting all the conversations
Not they.
I'm the one pumping in words
Like I was trying to pump in oxygen
To keep them alive.
Not they.
I'm the one asking questions,
Looking like an absolute idiot,
Or sounding so smart they don't want
To talk to me.
No, not they.
I depended on them.
They said burden us with your rants
Your thoughts
And sorrows.
But yet they never reply.
I am once again alone.
And could someone please tell me why?

We twist words,
So they look like beautiful
Cylindrical knots
Than the lines they really are.
Art is never really made out of
Straight lines,
It comes with curves, tangles,
And mystery.
Writers are liars.
We embellish, we polish,
We try to put as much spice in your
Cup of coffee just so you can hear us
Think.
We lie. Hard. Yeah there's no such place as "hobbiton"
And Sherlock Holmes was never a real person.
And there's no district 12 where Romeo met Juliet.
All lies.
But yet, we love them.
We scream feed us more.
Writers are liars, but we also ******
Mirder out characters
When we get bored with them.
You think Moriarty was bad,
See the man penning his words,
His soul is darker than death.
We are liars. And thats why we are good writers. Because we
Don't need the truth to support ourselves.

Does every poem on this site
Seem to be about love?
Two bodies,
Two lips,
Two eyes looking into another two eyes,
Like they were reflections
Through the looking glass.
Why do we read of longing,
That I need you in my life,
Why do we read about boys and girls
As if they were commodities
Their stories never getting old?
Why the love?
Why amor?
Why romance?
Do tell if you have an answer

You could relate.
You listened to my fate.
You understood.
I loved you. I love you still.
I hugged you goodbye on
The last day of camp.
You were crying.
I missed you. I miss you still.
Those fun summer days.
Bus rides, museums, shopping.
Dreams now they seem.
You were the middle
Yet the smallest.
I wish I could see you.
Thank you best friend, for understanding,
And relating,
I love you.