This nature of me,
the skin over my bones over my poetry,
I've missed this tender discourse,
the rhyme and reason of my slight frame held against glass.

I see myself better when I'm not trying to cry,
and I'd left this naked art so long
I could no longer tell the difference between
a night with stars and a night without.

This is buttermilk to starvation,
drowning twice and coming up for air.
The first mouthful aches like forestfire,
by the third I am a gulping animal.

how can anything
be everything
so many parts
in each puzzling life
is it healthy for anything
to be everything
depends on your anything
depending on who you ask.

my life is sadness

As if you didn't already know that,
I'm a teenager after all

But this isn't a poem about a sad wasted life

It's a bland poem about a sad artist

Nothing I can ever do will make it meaningful

There's no point to it

I can create,

Write some profound or empty poetry

Make some genius or contrived music

Paint some ugly or beautiful pictures

gentrify my sadness,

make it pretty
make it art

It doesn't make it anything more than a black hole

a black hole that throws out a portrait of a boy with a million eyes that can't see anything

I realise now
that sadness

no matter how much I dress it up

Is sadness

And even if it's pretty or artistic

it's never going to be more than that

We all have a little sadness that we have to live with
            And that's not a bad thing

Wrapped around in each other;
             lost in our lips
             with our eyes eclipsed
             we kiss each other deeply
             breathing each others air
             your taste seeping into my mouth;
                                          our flavor everlasting

You're in or you're out.
Make the choice.
Decide.
I'm here, with an open heart,
willing to set aside my baggage and travel this unexplored road unburdened by my past.
I'd love for you to join me.