You're my joy,
And my grief,
My peaceful rest,
And lack of sleep,
My only truth,
My endless fraud,
You're my heathen,
And my God,
My brightest future,
And dark past,
You're my first love,
And my last,
Source of all sickness,
And good health,
A stranger and,
My deepest self,
My rising sun,
And fallen moon,
You're the dreadful silence,
And my favorite tune,
You are my numbness,
And my pain,
My peace of mind,
And thoughts unchained,
My heart of gold,
Split in two,
Good or bad,
I dream of you.

I'm here sitting
alone,
the smell of coffee runs through
my veins,
some music i probably will forget
in a few years arguing with
the thought of you,

But I'm here,
I'm here,
writing about what's happening

pretty boring huh?

i call myself a poet
but i can't use high metaphors,

i call myself a poet
but i can't describe fully
how you make me feel

i call myself a poet

but what am i?

I'm just a kid
scared of life
finding new ways to cope
searching for someone to love,
desperate,
not holding unto my dreams
how can i choose with my mind
what's right for the heart to choose.

and you see?
don't you see?

don't worry i can't either

i can't see how great i am
i can't see how other people see me
i wish i could.

i want to believe this was a dream
or
a nightmare at that.

But at last.
I'm here wishing that in another life
i could be with you,
or
maybe in other deaths,

i crave your touch,
i crave you..
with coffee waking up my senses
like a kid in summer waking up early
to go play with his friends.

i wish things were different,
so i wouldn't have to wish.

Lately
I don’t feel close
to poetry.

It feels elusive.
Unfamiliar.
Once it spoke to me.
But now it’s mute.

It sits back
and doesn’t look
at me.

If I call out
it doesn’t hear.

Lately poetry is
like that demon
I used to want
to reappear.

i’m convinced that
i have met an angel in real life,
wings spread and
halo glowing,
lips soft like
the sheets we’re tangled in
sweet like honey, showered
with stars from above
i am
entrapped, ensorcelled
by all that you are.
-a.c.b