Tired of crying
tired of eating
but mostly my heart
is tired of beating

Is a poet still a poet
If they do not write?

A journal gathering dust,
But a yearning to write.
Am I still a poet
Without my inner light?

It often seems to me that the night
       remains
richer and more vibrant than the day

my colorful insides have never felt so gray

the skies have eyes
and i’ve got paranoia,
i feel this sinking vibe
just like i’m in water.

no matter what i try
i’ve still got eyes for you,
and in my lies
i’m slowly sinking towards you.

You are tea,
serene in your surroundings.

                                                               ­                                        I am coffee,
                                                                ­           attention always bounding.

Your colour milkish pale,
creamy optimism.

                                                               ­                              I am taken black,
                                                                ­                                bitter cynicism.


Two sugars,
to match your disposition.

                                                               ­                                     None for me,
                                                             ­       I'll maintain my grim affliction.


                                               We differ so much,
                                                     it's obscene.
                                                  
     ­                                              But in the end
                                               we're both caffeine.