Do it now,
Light a match, set my heart aflame,
The wait is too slow, love,
I need an end to this game,
Where i know the hopes
Are bleak for my victory,
So do it swiftly in one go,
Light a match and burn away this agony.

We would mark our places-

Our flower shop,
Our cheesecake,
Our café,
Our frozen yogurt,
Our secret spot,

We would, without a thought,
Childishly decorate,
Build landmarks; but now
When it's time to separate,

I realize, as we stare
Ruefully at one another,
That we marked not only places,
But ended up coloring each other-

~ Irreversibly ~

My head is nodding off into sleep,
My mind, shutting down for the night,
Yet the heart is vigorous, up and about,
Says it has poetry that I should type.

I know there's nothing tonight-

I feel no love or heartache at the moment,
No cause for gloom or celebration,
No nagging regrets or piercing guilt,
No urgent philosophical questions.

Yet the heart presses on,
And I've no choice but to let go,
And ease it with the calmness that only poetry brings,
Its verses acting as the best placebo.

After all, a writer's ***** is an impatient one,
And the only way to calm its creative agitation,
Is to feed it with words, ideas and emotion,
Woven together into a recipe of poetic composition.

I went to sleep,
wanting to talk to him;
I woke up,
wanting to talk to him;

In the morning,
I looked in the mirror and tried to
see what he sees;
I went to an art gallery trying to
see what he sees;
I lived today trying to
see what he sees.

I am what I refuse to admit

I am 2 parts *****, 1 part tears;
I am bottle in the nightstand;
I am tear stained stuffed animals.

I am late night walks alone;
I am a stranger rejected;
I am silent howling wind.

I am weird kid on the bus;
I am panic attacks at school;
I am after class *"talks" with teachers.

I am bracelets on my wrist;
I am the persistent urge;
I am fear of heights for the wrong reason.

I am a house, not a home;
I am old sweater in the closet;
I am fake fauna on the patio.

*to myself.