BLUE* oceans I see
Waves DANCE perpetually
Feel HER gravity

Making love,
a sweaty pit stop
between the sheets.
Politicians,
librarians,
directors,
janitors,
authors,
qu­eens,
kings,
moms,
you,
me,
All guilty of this bittersweet act of sticky significance.
All willing to tangle our limbs every night.

Somewhere between not yet and no longer.
Do you know it?
You can find me there.
Sit, please, tell me how you hurt.
Share with me all the thoughts that keep you up at night,
and indulge me in the little quirks you've mastered
to fill that space between not yet and no longer.
I have cigarettes and all the time in between.

I believe some people were born to be lonely,
and I'm believing more and more we were born to be seen,
and not understood.
But I don't want to be seen or understood.
One is too humble,
the other too grandiose.
I long for some place in between -
I long to be heard.
What an incredibly lonely place that is.

I know not how to remedy the gaps
between two opposing chemicals.
Too happy.
Too sad.
Too alone.
Too needy.
The cycle goes on and carries me from here to there,
too quickly,
or too slowly.
I just do what I'm told and take my pill.
'ONE at night'
and self medicate with caffeine and nicotine in between.

Now I smoke more than I ever have.
I don't know if I'm trying to fill a space
or **** something inside of me.
Either way it passes the time between now and finding out,
between not yet
and no longer.

Anxious.
Like the attachment style.
Becoming involved,
and over-thinking everything.
That's what you called that, right?
Over-thinking
these old insecurities that I can
never seem to
quite push
away
for good
while my pen bears its ink
down into and past the current
page because all my muscles
are tight
and my stomach is
sick
and my mind
is distracted.

You. You. You.

She'll pick you up,
put you down
once she's read your pages
and harvested your words.
Is it true?

I've been discarded before.

Tried to trap the bird,
what a foolish mistake,
and it flew away
leaving my hands full
of ashes.
I've pushed too hard
and clung too tightly
and lost it all
many times.

I get nervous, but I know my center.

I see your wings,
a magnificent ocean blue
which have been carved
through years of struggle.
Never think that I do not.
I would never deign
to clip them.
I would never make that mistake again.

But I, too, have my share of books
which I have picked up,
read fully,
or half-way,
and put down,
discarded.
I have lifted from branches
and flown further
when I've been trapped,
clipped.

I get nervous.

I want to stay,
more than anything,
but there is fire in my wings,
and fire in yours too.
We are certainly
birds of a feather,
so I wonder,
can we not,
could we not,
should we not,
fly together?

Happiness is a peculiar thing.
Desired by all, but comes in so many different designs that understanding every soul is nearly impossible.
Yet here i am, understanding that you make me happy,
but also coming to terms with the fact that what brings you happiness in turn destroys my own.
And here i lay left with a thought;
Do i have the right to despise what makes you happy, if I get you in return?
Or am I just disappointed that me alone does not satisfy you the way you satisfy me.

cotton candy in pink, blue, white
fluffy and fearless before sparkling eyes
I disappear into them
you'll never see me again

clouds of smoke in black, grey, white
I find myself breathing (or so I thought)
the ghost of me lays peacefully in white  
my limbs trapped in toffee (and there I rot)

cotton candy hardens into sticky toffee
when water touches it
when my lips touch it
soft to touch but never mine to hold

sweet candy in carnival colours
neon lights and bubble pop
I didn't believe the shadows in your eyes
or the sweet wrappers you trample on

a poisoned apple you offered me
"It's poisoned," you warned me
so who is to blame for this tragedy?
well, it's always been me, me, me.