It's a ridiculous cliche but, ******* it, your eyes...
Forgive me if I don't always make eye contact,
Or look away too soon.  I'm listening. I swear it.
I'm afraid you might think that I'm full of myself,
Or afraid you might think that I've no self-esteem.
The truth is much simpler than either extreme.
The truth is I'm somewhere right in between.
but still:
Twin seas draw my stare and I fear what I'll say.
Fear falling into their unlit depths, where even my silence could betray.
The source to illuminate and fuel our lives' desires,
Find it in her hands , her touch,
Find it in her eyes.
Her eyes of ocean depth see me,
Giving no safe place to hide,
Searching bad cliches for the light, the otherness inside.
But what if all of my words are wrong?
What if they drive you away?
What if the light between oceans is mute?
Insufficient to make you stay?

I just need to be left alone,
but don't stray too far;
I just need to know that you care,
but don't let out too much;
I just need to be able to stand
on my own two feet,
but don't let me collapse to the floor
for I fear my bones may break;
I have grown weaker
and my mind is slowly sinking
into a comfortable nothingness
and soon I will be sleeping
with the dead;
I just need to wait,
but I'm staring at clocks
with broken hands
and they've lost
their voice

the beauty that comes
from that little black pen
of yours
is more than what will ever
come from the stars
and the moon,
or the sun
and a clear blue sky;
your mind is working
so fast
and your pen still manages
to keep up with your train of thoughts;
your words scribbled on paper
are better than any
misty lake
on a cold Sunday morning
or a silent forest
on a dark Tuesday night;
your pen carries every single
emotion
from your brain
to the paper it is dancing over;
your beauty is
written through
that little black pen
and you should never
stop writing,
even when you feel empty,
you can find something
to write about;
never
stop

A writer lives two lives
One on earth
And the other on pages

Anger is like the headlights of an incoming truck. It's blinding, and you'll never realize you were on the wrong side of the road until the moment of impact.

a.g

Sitting here again, I feel the ghosts
of our memories layed around me
now, intertwined. So long ago, this
would have been enough- warmth

from friendship and from our bodies, that
was enough- quiet breathing, maybe
contented smiles, maybe not, only
peace all around us.

And then we got up. We decided
peace and warmth were not
enough, we forsook these
for teasing conversation, later

for barbed words, later
even these would be replaced
by stiff silence. Once
you comforted me as I shook here

and wiped my tears away
as they fell. Now,
I sit here still, and wish
to live in memories.

That girl
Is skin and bones
Takes long drags on her cigarette
Makes funny comments
About not eating
She's mysterious and vague
And she's not real
Eating disorders are not fun,
Or cute, or romantic, or tragically beautiful
There's nothing romantic
About worrying about
Your breath smelling
Of ***** while kissing
Someone you love
There's nothing romantic
About seeing an expensive dinner
Your boyfriend bought you
Swim blurrily in the toilet
There's nothing beautiful
About rotted teeth
And hair growing on your arms
If you think this is beautiful,
You can have it in exchange
For the ability to do basic things
I need in order to live
Like ******* eat  
It's not beautiful
To never feel beautiful
And never love yourself
So when we see ribs on a girl
And you see romance,
I'll see her ribs
As a cage
Keeping the pain in