My head is killing me,
Or is it my heart?
or the fact that you take back
what you start?
Cut me open and bleed me dry
whilst I ponder the reason why
you led me on for so long,
you made me believe.
I wish I was strong,
strong enough to walk away,
but I was stupid and I wanted to stay.

Poetry is like a living being
It lives in a world that's created on lined paper
It breathes in the writers' imagination
And feeds on the words that is written.
Poetry is the vast oceans
Words swimming around
Forming sentences and rhymes

Poetry is like the meaning of life
Forever to be a myster
Until. . .
Some smarty pants
With no pure imagination
Slaughters it with logic
Dissecting the poem
JUST to fugure out its meaning
Leaving the poem LEFT FOR DEAD

Poetry is like the free birds in the sky
Til one day a greedy child
Traps it in a cage
Never to be let free
Till it learns how to sing~

we stood by the doors of the train
in the sticky heat that kept
me from wanting to sit
because i hate when my thighs
hold onto the plastic seats
like it's life or death

i stared into your irises
and noticed that they weren't
what i had always thought they were
in times when we were miles apart and
i had closed my lids tight and imagined
you staring back at me

a drunk man stumbled onto the train
and as we stood stagnant for
10, 15, 30, 45 minutes
he slammed and slurred about
public transportation and the *******
that just don't know how to do their jobs

you and i stood silently laughing,
and the happiness in our eyes
was all we needed

i hold onto pieces of time
like this and it's what keeps me breathing,
knowing that one day, i'll add to the archive

perhaps that's the hardest part,
the inability to make new memories together,
because in the end that's all a relationship truly is
and that's everything a relationship truly is

pen, paper, phones, computers, smoke signals, homing pigeons, bike messengers, telegrams, postcards,
none of them are you

I have used up all my tokens
and squandered all my pardons;
all that’s left is tarnished pyrite
and a jewellery box for two.
For I will tear your heart out
and feed it to the coyotes;
you may be the one for me,
but I’m no good for you.

As the field runs crimson
I’ll proceed to crack your spirit.
I know that this is foolish,
but love - this is all I know.
If the moon would make a bargain
on the dust that seals up fractures,
I would strip my backbone
reaching out to make it so;

I would mend each tiny crevice
- plant hydrangeas in the darkness,
but without a new foundation
it is all still frail and makeshift;
and each compounding weight is
all crushed-guts and shattered-statements.
Again we’re set a whirling;
we can’t recognize our faces.

The strongest tree is only paper
and my convoluted nature
is just a fallacy I’ve built to house,
my fear of what is true.
So, we’ll dance until our knees split,
you’ll repeat that we’re a unit
and as I kick the chair out
choke a final, “i love You.”

. . .  .  .   .   .    .    .     .     .     .      .      .       .       .        .         .          .           .                 .

Amidst staggered breaths
my fragile frame converts to dust.
Oak entombs the ashen ruins
of a long awaited  
Us.

I never thought this would happen-
the lights falling on me this way,
lifting my soul up,
and you are watching with those shining eyes.

The light is coming from you,
revealing all my imperfections.
You wanted it to be this way.
I'm not sure if I do.

I want to shrink,
hide under a warm blanket of darkness,
but you are still there.

The light calls to me
in a most peculiar way.
Shattering my fears
that were building to a ******.

And even though I know you are watching,
I can't reach you.
Even if you are reaching,
I can't touch you.

Your light got so bright,
it was blinding.
I cover up with a fort I built with lies,
in the night,
I look up.

I see you in the sky.
Little spots of you in me.
Little spots of hope in the dark.

I'm sure if I saw my eyes on someone else
I would think they are beautiful.
But on myself
I don't notice them at all.