I keep writing these poems
emptying my chest onto paper
thinking somehow
this will make it feel less hollow
thinking someday
these words won't be so tortured
but every scratch of pen
every patch of black or blue
covering something that just
didn't fit right
looks so vacant
and everything I say
is starting to sound the same
I am pulling words from a thesaurus
trying to rephrase the ache
into something I haven't felt before
trying to justify
why I haven't been able to fix this yet
talking myself into a fire
this ink is gasoline
and combustion
is something I am all too familiar with

Too many hours in the day
Are spent talking about last night
While I sit in silence  
Thinking about  
The day

I am the poem
I refuse to write.

My skin has formed itself
as sedimented book pages,
quietly injecting
our unspoken metaphors
into my bloodstream
of Murakami, of Plath,
of everything that hurt too much
to even whisper to my typewriter.

I am a poet,
and I will type you
into the night sky.

"Saudade" the heart whispers in low tones
but I decide to ignore it
"Saudade" the heart cries
but I wipe its tears with numbness
"Saudade!" the heart screams in agony
and only then do I see
how deep the heart feels
that everlasting pain I decide to ignore
that unique portuguese word that describes perfectly
how everytime I ignore those threatening sad thoughts
they linger somewhere else

She was the kind of beauty that was not to be heavily applied and caked,
She was the kind that rolled over in untucked sheets the next morning with a slight glimmer in her eye, and a rosy tint to her cheeks.
The kind with long eyelashes, and a wardrobe full of cotton striped tee shirts.
She was gentle, sweet, and told ***** jokes on car rides home.
She was the kind of beauty you find in low budget indie films,
The kind that warms the pit of your stomach when she walks in a room,
The kind that didn't strike twice.