01:52 am
have you ever asked yourself like why you so lonely?*

01:53 am
or empty?

that maybe you give too much of your essence to people and never leave any of you for yourself

01:55 am
i know i do

02:05 am
and like that's maybe why i get so attached to humans

because in them,
i find myself

02:07 am
i need to change, because things shouldn't be this way

02:10 am
but it's hard sometimes you know, when most days you don't leave the house because you feel unworthy of the space you take up

02:16 am
so you'd much rather disintegrate into soil because you've become all too familiar with people stepping over you and admiring the outcome of your beauty but never the roots of your pain

02:19 am
i spend so much effort watering people in order for them to grow and hardly get enough sun shine to feed my own soul

02:25 am*
because i don't know how to do anything else but care for everyone but myself

stand in the kitchen
with your arms on my waist
whilst pouring my thoughts
into your capable mind,
with no need of worrying
about who will clean
up the spilled soul
that remains on the tiles.

The stretch marks that you left on your mothers thighs
will hurt her far less than the lines you will leave
on your suicide note.
Stop and think for a second.

that honesty was the best kind of poetry.
So here it is. My kind of poetry
but your kind of honesty.
I am so
infinitely,
undeniably,
irresponsibly,
head of heels in love with you.

There's something about a pair of
old sneakers, that is just so hard to let go.
They were a part of you, for so many days.
They hold every
puddle you stepped in,
every blade of grass.
The gravel, the mud, the sand, the pavement;
it's all there.
So maybe it's not about
possesion,
maybe its just about the travels, and the memories, the ones you don't want to let go.

(m.a.)

Your love for me
is like a pair of sneakers.

Reliable.
Comfortable.
Familiar.
Don't pinch or hurt; so good to your feet
you sometimes forget they're there.

It's just that sometimes,
not often,
but every now and then, I wish
your love for me was more like
a pair of wild shoes.
Brash.
Thrilling.
Bold

enough to spark the exciting pursuit
that it seems I never had.

I have the words
but they are out of tune,
so write me a song.

I don’t play guitar
and I don’t read the notes
so write me a song.

I can give you words, but I won’t
cause I want your own
so write me a song.

And maybe we’ll sing it together,
Or i’ll sing it alone
Doesn’t matter, just write me a song.

Or a stanza,
Or a line,
anything, just make me something.

please,
write me a song…