Turn me inside out,
Learn the way I tick.
Unveiled. Naked. Vulnerable.

I am an open book,
You could recite my story by heart,
and be the holder of the pen.

You write delicate words,
across my pages,
filling them with colour.

Unveiled? Naked? Vulnerable?
No.

Take this crown,
And wear it with pride,
For you are the holder of my trust.

Maleable my metallic resolve
bending pliable with each shortcoming or flaw
tempered by the trials by fire I find myself withstanding
shrinking and expanding
under the fluctuation of your patience
steady now, the once shimmering finish that set my cold iron heart apart
finally begins to start
rusting
whenever I'm trusting
the words you spill as water seeping into my exterior, meticulously working grooves
in the battered smooth
surface
watch me oxidize
before your eyes
let your acid words etch away at my forged desires
broken hearts need only the fire
to scorch away the past, molten and awaiting a new love to be forged
broken hearted into the fire once more...

I don't know where I'm going,
And sometimes I'm oblivious to what happens around me.

I don't know where I belong,
And as much as I try not to care,
Somehow it constantly bothers me.

I don't always know what to say,
And I convince myself that it's alright when I know that I ******* up.

Another birthday,
Another shooting star,
Another penny in the fountain,
Coin in the well.

All I can do is wish that it'll all be okay someday.

I wanna keep chasing those sunsets

I wanna catch those beams in butterfly nets

Those illuminating rays that capture my breath

I grieve at dusk, but I’ll never forget

Spending my day, chasing those sunsets


I shudder at the moon with its cold blank stare

Glaring at me intently, in the cold night air

Return my sun, I crave its warm embrace,

I stare at the sun as it recedes into space

And the shadows settle in upon my face…

As we lay beneath these fields of wheat,

Victims of love in our final defeat,

Wondering whether our sins will show,

Accepting the fate all lovers know…

Once more the cauldron of the sun
Smears the bookcase with winy red,
And here my page is, and there my bed,
And the apple-tree shadows travel along.
Soon their intangible track will be run,
And dusk grow strong
And they have fled.

Yes: now the boiling ball is gone,
And I have wasted another day….
But wasted—wasted, do I say?
Is it a waste to have imagined one
Beyond the hills there, who, anon,
My great deeds done,
Will be mine alway?