There is this funny thing that happens when a heartbreak-poet heals

She forgets how to put words together
She forgets what the 3 a.m wind feels like
and she forgets poetry . slowly .

And she knows how it feels like
It feels like being able to breathe again after an asthma attack
It feels like waking up to the sunlight when the last thing you remember was the midnight moonlight gentle against your window

She just could not write it down.
Because words do not work like colours
you can never just throw them in

She takes time, somedays.
Trying to recall that heartbreak,
Trying to make sense of what art it had
And why it was taken away when it left

It is very ironic when a heartbreak-poet heals
She falls soundly asleep, wishing,
she is able to wait for the 3 a.m wind,
wishing,
she remembers what poetry was like - how it feels.

The spoons are disappearing
The world is ending
I need my spoon
I cannot live, so I suppose I shall die
I take the spoon in my trembling hand
Straight to my heart goes the painful command
Pain, so much pain
The sorrow that it gave
A pale white chest
Stained with the red aches
The hurt and the pain
Will soon go away
A limp hand unfurls
But nothing appears
Not a sound on the floor
As the pain burns on more
The murderous weapon is no longer there
The murderous weapon was never there

There is no spoon
My spoon had been stolen
The world is ending
But still my heart churns
Blood after blood
Leaking and spilling
Cascading over my stone cold bones
But nothing has been done
The void inside that longs to be filled
Still forgotten
Still unwanted
For my heart is still owned
By the blind hand of doom
That brought me to my death

You made a poet fall in love with you
And expected her not to write sonnets about your eyes
Haikus about the way you kissed her in the moonlight
Expected the fire in her heart not to inspire couplets
You made a poet fall in love with you, and when you left
Expected her not to write pages about the ache in her chest
Write a soliloquy dedicated to her tears
Expected her not to feel every gut wrenching moment of the pen hitting paper like your words hit her in the most vulnerable places of her mind.
You made a poet fall in love with you, and you expected her to be silent.
That is no fault of hers.

Some girls like me are full of heartache and poetry and those are the kind of girls who try to save wolves instead of running away from them

I packed your red t-shirt away;
The last bit I kept of you.

Letting go is hard...
But trying to forget is harder.

I clung to that shirt for months.
It smelled of your skin.

But, when I wore it recently,
It felt wrong.

I was weighed down.
You... weighed me down.

I lifted your heavy t-shirt off my shoulders...
To finally feel free.

The giants of industry
Reaching upwards
To pluck the stars from the sky
And blind the moon
Cast a glow
Unnatural
And poisonous
Where livings are made
And lives are lost.
A town built around the chimneys.
A town destroyed by the smoke.