Now my clothes are stained with the memory's of the boys that took them off.

The ones that never bothered to learn my middle name.

And I never found out their favourite colour...

Someone stop me from texting him back.
Please, i beg of your help.
He pulled my heart out of my chest too many times.
Yet i still want him.
I beg for release.
But something keeps me gravitating towards him.
I need to escape.
I dont want to text him.
But i do.
I should just go to sleep before i get involved again.

This is the last poem I write about you
So I suggest you read it until you find it hard to breathe.

This is the last poem I write for you
in hopes that you'll read and use it to find your way back to me.

This is the last mark I make on a clean white page that on the other side
reads your name.

There is a photo of you in the back of this notebook that I haven't looked at in a month.

There is a burning in my stomach and it's leading me to believe that I am eating me alive.

Every word I've said alone in the dark
was uttered in hopes that you would somehow hear me.

It's over and I'm out.
This is the last time.
This is no longer for you.
You are no longer my muse.
(b.r.o.)

Funny how a photograph can pump blood
I only have one of you, it isn't mine
it sits here backlit
shared with all that would gladly drown in those mischief eyes.
Your smile, a moment of calm, a second of perfection caught, always brings my own.
There is no beauty like yours, no work of art has ever made me want to overflow with passion the way you do. I could write countless poems, a thousand odes to your dimples, a million sonnets to your curls, a billion lovesongs to your eyes to no avail. So I'll laugh at your jokes, and be a sturdy shoulder, a friend.  I'll wish the best for you always, while your heart keeps my secret safe. Poets shouldn't fall in love with the unloved, there aren't enough words to describe the agony.