He was never one to speak his feelings,
always a stony façade,
Never frequent "I miss you's",
but rather, "Please don't be late."

But once in a while, there are cracks in his armor,
an off-guard laugh or a secret smile,
his eyes would shine as he thinned his lips,
I'm always hoping he'd laugh for a while.

He has funny ways of showing me he cares,
like always making sure I'm never cold,
I quite like his shy, boarded up exterior,
you take what you get in this world.

"Darling," I'd whisper, as he held onto my hand,
and his consciousness drifted into night,
"It's okay that your 'Text me when you get home's"
look like 'I love you's" when I hold it to the light.

I've never been one to stay still,
there was always one hang nail to pick on,
one loose thread to tug.

I like laughing,
I love the way it bubbles up from my stomach to my throat.
Especially when it's caused by you.

I was never good with words under pressure.
I never knew how to phrase myself, so that you knew what I was trying to say.
I'd always trip over my tongue; always too many syllables, always too little breath.

You always knew, though.
What I was trying to say.

You'd hold my hands when I'm picking at my nail beds;
You'd clasp them and I'd be still.
Resting on your shoulder, breathing in the rhythm of your heart beats.

You'd smile your silly smile when I laughed.
You'd say, "your laughter tastes like butterscotch!"
I'd say, "but you don't like butterscotch."
"I like butterscotch now."

You never had to decipher my staccato mumblings to understand me.
You knew that my "I like holding your hands," looked a lot like "I love you" when held under the light.

he said he'd always fight for me

I never realised he was fighting himself

I am a writer, a ****** of words. I am a pen that's skipping ink but I still continue to write despite the broken lines because that's what I'm made for in the first place. Maybe the reason why I get hurt so much is that I fall in love with words a lot. I'm in love with people who is in love with literature. These poems and letters may not be made for you or because of you but their main purpose of being written is to move you. I want you to do something about that girl who works in your favorite book shop because I don't want you commiting the same regrets as I did. I want you to raise your voice and write about the oppression or the wage gap. I want you to write about something from the deepest part of your chest. I want you to write about something I cannot write about.

But some days, I feel nothing. I could write about being in love and about the color of their eyes but nowadays, their eyes look exactly the same. I could write about sadness but sadness itself is what hinders me to grab a pen. Now, I could write about happiness. But I rarely feel this way and when I feel this way, ******* I feel this way. I could gather these words about being filled with the color yellow but happiness will say that those words are not enough to fathom the euphoria I feel in me. Maybe one day, I could explore enough dictionaries to find the perfect words on what I have to say.

You don't have to be the greatest writer there is to make someone feel something through your words. Write about everything, every emotion, and every person who finds their way to your heart. When you can't write anymore, get outside and get your heart broken. Go outside and experience an experience that you never thought you would experience. Soon enough, you will write the words you never thought you would ever write. Don't hold anything other than offensive and oppressive thoughts back. Let the poetry run through your veins and drip down your fingertips. Write, write, and write until you can't write anymore. When you can't write anymore, seek a perhaps to write about then write, write, and write until you can't anymore. Even when the poem is below my satisfaction, I continue to share it anyway because being stoic and still would lead me to madness.

I am a writer, a ****** of words. I am a pen that's skipping ink and even though my lines are broken and unappealing, I continue to write anyway and because that is what I am made for in the first place.

a messy bedroom i never got around to cleaning up

love made me feel like i knew the answer but when
i raised my hand, i was the only one in the room

If tears were sand,
you've sent me beaches;
If pain were words,
you've sent me speeches.
If misery were a color,
you've given me blue;
And if heartache was a person,
you've given me you.