you say you miss me
like it's a chore.

i think i'm bleeding.

Poetry hurts.
It hurts to look at, hurts to read, because
it digs into the muscle fiber of your heart and burns its way
marking a fixed tattoo in your bone marrow
tearing through your brain material and ******* you dry.
It requires you to latch into the throttle of the soul and feel the pain
and joy
of everything you experience.
No, there is no escape-
explore your pain, stay there, fully enjoy the beauty and the frightening
love of this terribly glorious world.
Books don't hurt,
they placate. They are the balm on your poetry-burns,
allow you to view your pain objectively, to quietly observe
from a peaceful, magical
faraway land where pain doesn't matter
and that roller coaster is just a funny backdrop instead of
the vehicle in which you fall in love and lose your innocence
in the same run.
Books are the numbing, the morphine
to allow you to fall into an enchanted sleep.

We all need books and poetry at different times- to each his own-
but for my own part,

I prefer poetry.

(I wrote you
the same **** love letter over
and over
and over again
and I will keep
writing it)
(until one of us understands)

Love poetry is not about
The joining of man and woman-
****** or otherwise.
That is too simple for love poetry.
It’s about separation
Longing for
Searching and waiting.
In the longing lies the divine.
In desire is faith-
Reaching for something
You know is there
Reaching back for you
Like a hopeful horizon,
No proof that her arms are
Outstretched towards you.
But you feel it,
Know it somehow,
Viscerally,
Can’t help but know it
In a way that others don’t
And never will.
The faith of reciprocation.

You are special for having been
Touched
By this beautiful agony.

Shouting through the desert
and there's no one to hear
because my poems about love aren't
accurate, or good enough, when
words cannot describe what they are meant to describe. I like grass between my toes
and wind in your hair
and how it feels to wake up
and the way you look when you wake up
that smile that you only just started having
I can't write it down because
the spark in your eye has never been visible before, and no one has seen it but me
I like hugs and kisses and late night talks and
breakfast food and blue skies and gray skies
green skies red skies
and shouting through the desert is all I can do.

Flap Flap goes the Flappy Bird

Was this the right choice?
Seeing warnings on twitter
Thinking they're all quitters
Thinking you're better
But in reality, you're just as equal as them.

But as the day passes...
Flap Flap goes the Flappy Bird

Seeing your friends play, you start multiplying
Not even touching a pipe and dying
You're on the floor, you're crying
Pressing start over and over again and trying
Knowing your high score is low and start lying
because you know you ****.

But as the day passes...
Flap Flap goes the Flappy Bird

Questions going through your mind
"Why did I die?"
"Did I really touch a pipe?"
"Why do iPhone users only have day while Android have both day and night?"
"Why is it slower on other phones?"
"How do you get past 20?"
"Why do I keep dying?"
"Why do Android users have other colors?"
But the question you should be asking is...
"Am I going mad?"

But as the day passes...
Flap Flap goes the Flappy Bird

Now, the resolution.
Stop the addiction.
Press that "x"
You know its for the greater good.
I know YOU feel the ANGER whenever you die.
You don't wanna risk throwing your phone for that.
Take my advice. DO IT.
Before it ruins your life.

But as the day passes...
You can't.
You can't.
You can't.

Its too late.
Flappy Bird is now part of life.
Even though the anger
The anger that feels like your chest being stabbed by a knife
Hurts you so much
Deep inside you get a little happy...
Knowing somewhere in the world someone trying the same game
Got less than you.
Less than 3, 2, or 1.
And because of this you want to beat more people who **** more than you.

And this should be an achievement
You, state your name, got YOUR own high score.
YOU did it
YOU made it to one pipe or even more.
And if you didn't
Well ***** for you

But as the day passes...
Flap Flap goes the Flappy Bird

To me,
you're the whisper I find in snow.
You're the emphasis on my "T's"  
You sing me stardust.
You scream me the sun.

She smelled of hate and abuse. I can recall her stringy, brown hair thrown across my pillow. Her mascara was finding its way down her ghost face, but she didn't even try to fight her tears. She was just as hollow as I was.
"How do you know me..?" she inquired. "I probably shouldn't have come with you. I'm sorry; I should be going." I turned my head at this, and I tried to hold back my own tears.
"It's me." I sobbed. Why had she forgotten about me so quick? Was I nothing but another **** to her? I remembered it all so vividly. Her bony body bouncing on my own.. Her beautiful lips, pressed so tightly together, while she rocked away.
She was my angel; she was my sanctuary.