The smudge of ink that is left when a mistake can't be completely erased
Just another failed attempt
Another rough draft
That's what I am
I think that if someone were to finish erasing
I could be rewritten as something much more beautiful
A better version of me
A better choice of words
Maybe if I could erase myself
You could recreate me more beautifully than this first edition
You could create me with the abundance of loveliness that you hold
Where I am "flawed"
You could write me as "fascinating"
Where I feel "ignored"
You could describe me as "engrossing"
Where I am "alone"
You could instead write "loved"
I want you to change me
Mold me
Shape me
Recreate me
Replace me with a better version of myself

i've lost more people than i realized i had to lose

Tossed into the muddy reservoir of bad choices.
You are the words coming back to haunt me.
You are those voices.
I am all the times you thought you knew better;
I am the constant reminders.
I am the torn up love-letter.

The unread magazines that hide your drawings.
The bitter, black coffee
that picks me up in the mornings.
The way the sun comes out earlier this time of year;
And how the rain comes and hides, and obscures
the tears.
The hello's and goodbye's,
forced
and insincere.
And the voice that whispers:
"It's alright,
have no fear."
And the other voice that whispers other things
I'd rather not hear.

I am all the decisions you wish you hadn't made.
You are every note,
out of tune
or misplayed.
You are the soundless symphony;
the forgotten serenade.

You are the one I haven't met yet.
The rising of the moon
and the falling of the sun set.

I am the poems never read,
and the songs never sang.
I am door never opened;
the telephone that never rang.

We were the story never told,
and the feelings never shared.
The ones that didn't live to ever grow old.
The empty box, written with the words
"Handle with care."

The devil once told me of  a queen spider, how the title had little to show for in the midst of time and change. It explained to me that no matter who or what you are, there will always be change.
To give rise to that explanation, the queen died the very next day.

The flower was yanked from the ground, because the thought of weeds the people couldn't handle. He didn't protect what needed his protection. He couldn't preserve an ounce of what was important. Spring has now gone, and it will not come again.

And the one and solitary way of telling another's true death was in their eyes. A chasmic color of some sort attributed, to prove a loss of hope and a gain of want. Had it never came to flesh and bone, it was not a death, but a hopeful wish for the soon to come. Now leave the flesh unturned and welcome the new rising hope, the blessing of the east.