"What is your favorite despicably beautiful thing?"

Two answers: sadness and you.
Both comparable in more ways than one.
You are a million gallons of peppermint tea,
an avalanche of contaminated sunsets,
******* renditions of Gymnopédies.
Remember year 2009? I watched the moon with you.
You wanted to bathe in the half-priced rain shower
and I said sorry, I'm sorry, I'm really ******* sorry,
because I could do anything for you at that moment
but I didn't. I didn't.

The mind is not the heart--
Don't be fooled, my hideous darling gremlin of a self.
The mind. Is not. The. Heart.

And it never will be.

Pitter patter. I hear your calling in every rain drop.
I see your face in every expensive thing I can't afford:
that box of earl grey, those Japanese ******* tea cups--
But I can live with the loss of you.
I can live. I can live.
I am never alone anyway.

You sleep too much because you want to cry less
As if your bed could absorb the sadness from your skin
Despite waking up with tears tracing your cheeks
And frost sealing your bones regardless of your twenty quilts
You’re hopelessly naïve if you think sleep can save you,
Thaw you, end the winter swirling in the pit of your stomach
You are only making everything worse for yourself
You need to get up and start moving your gears
No matter how much it hurts, no matter how much it aches
Soon all the rust and frost will fall away and melt
And you can move again as much as you may wish
Dance to the beat of life itself,
Sing the songs you’ve buried inside you
You are not an old machine fathers try to fix but eventually give up on
You are human, you are alive and you are on your best when living

From the moment I met her, I knew
she was more than the discreet wind she poses to be.
She was a storm brewing, sleeping it off
until the next rainy day arrives.

My skin tingles whenever she’s around
and my whole body screams,
“Run away! Run away!”
but I knew too well, I couldn’t be saved.

I was already in too deep,
caught up in the eye of the storm.
Steady for safety,
though loving her is never safe.

She rains on asphalt roads
and shoots electricity down people’s spines.
She kisses earthquakes awake
and she blows roofs off of hearts.
She breaks walls down with her breaths.
And she scares me.

My whole body screams
“Run away! Run away!”
but my mind is off wandering,
writing poems and manifestos
about apologetic winds and loving every storm—
and living through all that.

I don’t know what it is with one-word titles that just get to me.
They reach in through my paper skin, and the light cardboard ribs, without ripping anything in half or bending something beyond comprehension.’ I’ve always found it a little bit intriguing the way I come out alive after each song and each poem, each work of art that should have shredded me through and through but didn’t.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that you’ve killed me so many times but I keep coming back to you.

Oh, I’ve got guns for hands and I might’ve killed her out of passion.
Is it possible for skin-to-skin interaction to produce such electric friction,
enough to ignite these explosives awake?
Perhaps if you base it all on the violence,
the shattering, the sudden release of ethereal presence,
the full-blown eruption of all her emotions and everything in between–
Perhaps if you base it all on that, then you can cut my arms off of their sockets
and throw them out into the sea and I would be more than happy to oblige.
'Cause I’ve got guns for hands and I killed her out of passion and hers is my demise.

Im so incredibly jealous of the ocean
its freedom, its motion
I resent the rain
Causing me anxiety and pain
I envy the sun rays
Its fury blaze
Im grasping at straws
Trying to hide my flaws
I love you
But to be honest you are making me blue
Stay away
But please, please come back one day