Maybe we have chemistry

Maybe we have math

Maybe we have writing or reading or feelings that have passed

Maybe I’m annoying

Maybe I’m too bland

Maybe I’m just simply something you don’t understand

Maybe I still love you

Maybe I might not

Maybe I still crave the things we said but never got

Maybe I’m a nuisance

Maybe I’m just wrong

Maybe all I really need is myself all along

Dear God,

I know that we don't talk that much.
or at all.
I also know that I kinda don't believe in you.
sorry...
I just wanted to say that I'm happy where I am.
I know my other writings sorta contradict that statement, but I struggle with negativity, and my poems almost always punctuate pain over pleasure.
It's taken time. I'd be the first to know,
But I'm content with my sadness now.
I'm happy with the little worries I get when she looks upset.
I'm happy with the pessimism that spills from my pen too.
At least it creates.
And I'm not bullshitting you.
And no fingers crossed, because I know how you feel about crosses.
This isn't sarcasm or mockery.
I pinky promise.

I love my friends.

I say that they are toxic.
and they are.
But who says that pain and love cant coincide?
I think that they work quite well together.
And I'm not a *******.
But love wouldn't be love if there wasn't pain,
and this wouldn't be a poem by me if there wasn't any negativity.
So thank you for the spot I'm in
and thank you for the friends I have.
I love them all very much.
I love my friends very much.

Sincerely,
                 Your Desperate Friend

The rose that withered to dust in my hands

And I’m trying to sew it back together

It's been a while.
It's my fault we haven't talked.
I got new CD's.
I got new friends.
I'm not too sure if any of them helped.
But I got happier too.
I still wear black, but it's paired with a smile.
I hope you found happiness too...
I still have downs.
I still miss you.
I have a **** ton to tell you.
Did you know I play guitar now?
Did you know I have a tattoo?
I don't know when I will see you again.
If I do, I don't know if I will say hello.
But know that I miss you.
know that you're not forgotten.

Is poetry not enough? Do my songs still not help? The ghosts that I've conjured scream no. Writing always made me miss you more clearly; but it never made me stop missing you.

And I think I’ve managed to **** up every good thing that has happened to me. My vocabulary is becoming strictly “I’m sorry” And I am. But I’m sorry doesn’t fix everything. And sorry didn’t fix us.

I always say that I write to confront my fears, but I’m starting to think that I’m just writing to myself. And poem after poem I only become more aware that the almost inevitable self destruction is my biggest risk.

I’ll pound knuckles into walls, I’ll etch pencil into paper, and I’ll stay in the same spot for what feels like forever. I’ll conjure more ghosts. I’ll scream “I’m sorry” and in the end I will be the only one to blame.

But In the end I’ll still blame you.