Maybe, poets write because they have unstable feelings.
Maybe, poets write at 2am, in order to ease it.
Maybe, poets write to contain their feelings in to it.
Maybe, poets write *hopelessly.
Maybe, poets write at 2am hopelessly hoping, that, someone, on the other side of the earth, someone is awake to read the poem.

*And maybe someone awake, maybe, to care.

Near light improvised music
Under a moon so gray
Tomorrow's song
Sings of an evening
Pocketed in the dark
Absorbing us
Breathing us
Feeling us
Pulling us away
And we but following
Our usual routine
Lose track and thought
Of our words and hearts
Lose track and thought
Of our sight and light
Lose track and thought
Of our love,
And we simply
Reminisce.

I hope you believe me when my I tell you my body is composed of more than a skin and bone frame.
My body is a picture book of times stained to me like tattoos of memories unable to be washed off.
If you stare closely enough my purple knuckles tell a story of walls caving in on days I can't remember.
My fingers are a light shade of skin because they have traced bodies who's pigment fell in love with my hands.
My palms are empty from receiving and giving a little more than I should of let go; some things I should of clutched onto for longer.
My arms are made of clenched embrace and have a scent of regret laced from wrist to elbow.
My shoulders hold individual carvings of finger nails and teeth marks from more than one individual night.
My lips are a discolored red from every poison stained mouth in which they've met.
My neck is a canvas of rough hands, ropes not tied tight enough and purple stains of affection from those who have lied about loving me,
and my eyes have turned grey from staring for too long into the forests and oceans they've met at three in the morning in the caves of unfamiliar faces.
So if you happen to walk into my room, don't be alarmed by the smell of apathy. Don't concern yourself about the bottles buried and broken under mounds of clothes that reek of Marlboros. Don't turn the light on, and don't open the curtains.
I have lived long enough, my body will tell you the story.
But before you read it, please trust me when I say "there is more to me than this."

sometimes you just want to be alone
in your very own room
just complete hush-hush
scanning your thoughts
and predicting your future
accepting yourself
not keeping that thick, unlit mask
in order to dress and impress

multitudes of pressure begins to melt away
it's just you
and you only
and it becomes one of those rare occasions
where everything and anything is about you
and no one can mock or criticise
no one can tell you no
no one will have any psychological power
but yourself

and this is when you lull yourself to sleep
you decide
to finally rest
and be at inner peace

As I sang him to sleep
My winter gave way to his warm
While the moon danced on my skin
fever burned deeper than I’ve ever known
Or dared to have shown
To him
And he wondered what it was about me
How in silence I invaded his demeanor
Making life smell so much sweeter
Heavy is my love
like a slow rising fever
And in absence, I know I love him
As he holds in his hand, my pearl
And me, an empty shell of a girl
With armor at my feet
Forever waiting for his warm
While I sing myself
To sleep

She left
In the middle of a clear night
Saying
You have better chance
Of counting all the stars in the sky
Then me ever coming back
So I guess
I'll be counting stars
The rest of my life
Hoping if I count long enough
She might really come back

everyone has a fear of falling
from buildings
planes
and your lips
when they call me;
but we should be more like the winter snow
falling with the sole purpose
to create beauty
and to know
that my fear will keep you warm
in the coldest
darkest
times