I am writing because I don’t know what else to do,
I still hope for a time where the light is coming from me and not the world around me.
Promise me that someday we will be here,
In our own world,
Far from the expectations
Because a lion and lamb can be more than predator and prey,
Can’t it be love?
Can’t they kiss each other and wish them the best instead of seeing the helplessness?
Please don’t see the helplessness,
I am the only one, who can arrange the fates of my heart,
But maybe I can’t at all.
Maybe when I cry over the unknown all I really have is a bird with no voice because I don't know where I’m going or where I’ve been,
My naivety is all too real.
I know it,
But deep down I also believe that on the other side of the door,
The room,
The day,
Lies your other half and someday breathing life into each other will create so much magic that the world won’t seem so scary and harsh.
Sometimes there is an obscure feeling of life being exactly what it’s meant to,
But I’m restless,
I can’t wait for the day my life begins.
Though it has.
I want to crave this world so deep,
So fully,
So wholly that I can’t stop living for a moment,
All I really am inside is a little girl,
In a Barbie dress,
Waiting for what everyone said I would find,
But never finding it.
Because deep in a state,
In a town,
On a road,
In a house,
Through the door,
On the desk,
In the drawer is a note from someone,
To someone that they can’t bear to read,
But can’t bear to throw away either.
So maybe we are the lion and the lamb,
Too prideful,
Too scared,
Waiting for someone to get us.
Tell me,
Why is helplessness bad?
Feeling things is better than nothing.
Remembering the way that people smell,
And smile,
And laugh with their mouths too wide,
Or smoke,
Or drink,
Or hug.
Don’t hug me with your flimsy arms,
Hug me tight,
Because even though I can be a lion,
I will most always be the lamb,
And I need to be held.
I hate the way you drink,
And smoke,
And laugh.
I hate the way I spent so much time thinking that I loved you,
That it took me this long to see I never did.
So you go think in your room,
I’ll go think in mine.

keep spending expectations like currency on maybes,
Or miscounting the number of steps between us.
I can't quite reach what is already gone.
But I don't want to.
I'll keep singing lullabies to those who will not listen,
and you can tell me what it was that made you crave love,
but kept you from ever loving anyone in return.
I can't keep looking for reasons to things I don't want to know.

On Monday I missed you,
Because I swore I had lost my mind.
The sound of uncertainty bouncing on the driveway was deafening.
Two days before someone told me they hated poetry because everything had to have a deeper meaning.
Of course it has a deeper meaning,
I longed to scream,
it's life.

Home is just a four letter word for where we keep our souls.

My bare feet slap the hard wood and it echoes in my ears the way your words always did,
Ringing, a bit too loud,
Too true.
Too false.
And sometimes, I can convince myself that the dungeon depths of my unbrokenly, broken soul cry out for you,
though they only cry out for the nostalgia you gave to me.
I think I knew,
Even then, that your smile wasn’t mine and your laugh wasn’t lit by the sparks that were made by my too fast beating heart.
And even then,
I think I knew I wasn’t in love with you,
But, god, how I loved to make myself believe that I was.
We were hopeless and in uncharted territory,
And all I wanted was to draw the map that showed forever,
And you wanted to stay lost.
So now my bare feet slap the hardwood and I wonder what it is that keeps my heart so far from everyone else.
It’s too complicated and I’m too tired to keep mourning you after all this time.
You’re still alive and so am I.

Maybe dreaming of being somewhere else will get us there,
When those around us are incapable of feeling anything tangible.
Loving with heartbeats.
We wade through pools of doubt,
Seeking the lost that cannot be found.
Who decided unrequited longing was so romantic?
There is no romance in abandon,
Still here I am,
Neglected,
Romanticizing.
Drag your finger down the lines you drew,
Seek meaning where there is none to be sought.
Keep trying to sing lullabies to non-existent people,
Under the bed,
In the closet,
In your mind
You keep moving,
Not quite knowing if the wounds are superficial or extend deep in your being,
Either way,
Bleeding out is the least romantic way to go.
So patch up your wounds with band aids,
You don’t need to watch the blood flow in romanticism of what never was.
Please, never tell me what you really felt.
I’ve been set free from your prison,
I’ve been erased from your list,
Leave me neglected,
Because that’s how I’ve left you.

I am sorry, but I have already ran.
I have ran so far past any possibility that in my mind;
it is over...
I know this isn't fair to you,
but I cannot love.
It is too much to ask of me when I am this broken.
I am sorry but I have ran, so far, so fast that the beginning was just a moment, and the inevitable ending;
I skipped.
Here I am;
left without a trace of you,
but covered in scars.
There you stand,
with no explanation,
and it is all my fault.
Yet, despite it all,
I still cannot convince myself to turn around.

May I ask you just this:
Did you wonder what would have happened,
if you didn't say goodbye?
I may have lost you, and it was painful;
But you have lost me and it is a tragedy.
I always loved you, but I never did.

Our seconds,
Our hours,
Our days.
This is where we sleep with regrets;
Where we let the monsters win.
This is where we lose who we are in the search for who we should have been.

You walk through long hallways of doubt,
tripping over the things you believed, but shouldn’t have.
Falling through the cracks of a beautiful lie.
You drink in the sweet scent of going too far,
of not being able to turn around;
tracing your fingers down the constellations you drew on the walls,
the ones that predicted your fate.
But now all that is left is a straight line with an abrupt ending.
Brief and beautiful was never what you wanted,
but it also was the furthest thing from what you had.
It was long and painful,
a mosaic of misshaped sentences and remnants of shattered hearts,
pieces of glass you could never quite retrieve from your heels after it all fell to the floor.
Now, you sit in a dark room wishing for someone to save you;
but you have no perception of how you let yourself end up there.
You have no logical way to leave.