I hope wherever you wander,
you find a piece of me
just like wherever I wander,
I find a piece of you.

You’re in a weird place right now;
you feel like you don’t know which way is up
and which way is down,
and you know everyone
says to just follow your heart,
but you don’t know where it is.
Maybe you left it in another country,
or underneath your bed.
Maybe it’s in the summer air.
Or in a love you haven’t touched.
Maybe it's in a song you heard,
Or a book you haven’t read.
You’ll find it again,
you will,
just please,
don’t stop looking.

She owned two cats
and a heart full of sunflowers.
we listened to the Wombats
and talked for seven hours.
She lived across the sea,
in a life unfulfilled.
I hope she does agree
that we have much to rebuild.

And
in silence,
I take my leave.

Self love is
that sip of tea
keeping you company
like liquid glee.
Self loathing is
that bottle of ***,
your only friend
to turn you numb.
Self love is
watching the clock
strike ten forty-five
and sleep like a rock
Self loathing is
3am coming violently
as your brain screams
ever so silently.
Self love is
putting down the pen
saving that next line
for who knows when.
Self loathing is
stabbing the pen
through the paper
again and again.
Self love is
waiting out the storm
taking a deep breath
and keeping warm.
Self loathing is
hating every raindrop
and begging for
this storm to stop.

look them in the eye,
and kiss them deeply
until all of their rage is gone.
swallow their pain and fury whole,
become the storm yourself,
learn to survive yourself

Look in the mirror.
If you still see something there,
then nothing else matters.
Other’s blindness to your worth
is a “them” problem,
not a “you” problem.

There is a park bench
where lovers sit -
where we could have sat;
I pass it every day.
There is a hotel
in Monaco
where lovers go -
where we could go,
I dream it every night.
There is a beach in town
with sun and joy abound,
where lovers lie -
where we could lie.
There is a bed
In a room, in a home
where lovers live,
where we could have lived
happily ever after.

I’d crawl
back to love
even if
it was waiting
to destroy me,
again.

Somewhere tonight
there’s a girl writing a song
between working two jobs,
ignoring the voices that
tell her to give up.
I hope she never does.
I hope her future
is a bright one.

I guess I should have known better
than to let you in again, right?
I guess not.
No matter how many times
you leave a hole in my chest
leaving me to pick up the pieces
I always find my heart crawling back
to you to give you another chance
that you don’t deserve.
My heart, the fool, thinks that maybe
this time you’ve changed for the better.
Maybe this time, you really mean it.
Maybe this time, you will not repeat.
*******.

Maybe we met too young.
Maybe at that time,
we didn’t know how to love each other right.
Do you think if we met years from now,
we would be right for each other?
If five years from now,
you decide that you miss me,
there’s a strong chance I’d take you back.

I wonder how much pain,
that all-too-real pain,
I’m enduring on a daily basis.
I’m used to feeling like the weight of the world
is balancing on my heart
whenever I open that door
or a tidal wave of dread
plowing into my chest
every time I open my mouth,
but I wonder how much pain
I truly endure.
Each day seems to take a different toll.
Yes, some are better than others,
yet when I recall
how much I have endured,
I wonder if I should be amazed or ashamed;
I haven’t figured that out yet.

You can’t be replaced,
it’s an impossible feat
so carry on, stranger.
It took me too long to realize
that we aren’t toys, tools,
or parts of some machine;
we exist for ourselves.
what did you come here for,
comfort or a poem?

There was never any love,
no harm in letting go.
The pain came from grasping the thorns
attached to the beautiful ones.
There’s no regret planted here,
only trambled hopes and withered dreams.
No bad memories can bloom
in a garden that rejects salting,
but for the slower, grey days,
find a mirror and love the image
until the tears stop.

Just keep climbing
until you become the sky
Just keep climbing
until you become the heavens
Just keep climbing
until you become the future
We’ve climbed these mountains
with bare hands and heavy minds
screaming at our upward battles
so just keep climbing
until you become what you seek

Yes,
I am selfish;
I want to see you every night
Until the darkness is no more.
My nights can never be too full
of the stars that you are.

I have not been whole
in quite some time.
Too many nights spent
pouring my soul into songs
in hopes to fill those holes
you all left in me long ago;
words, chords and harmonies
that will never bring you back,
nor will it undo the past
or take me back in time.
And yet at this very hour,
these songs are stuck in my head
and I have no resistance
to their siren call.

Sometimes we never know
what to say at times like these;
just hollow thoughts
roaring through a hollow body
that didn’t want the awkward silences
to be their legacy.

Sometimes,
the knives in our backs
are the only things
keeping us upright;
Who'd have thought
betrayal could be our
greatest asset?
How ironic.

I used to ask myself:
is it better to have loved and lost
than to have never loved at all?
But lately, I wonder how much
one has to love before they start
to loathe every inch of skin
that no one else seems
to love enough
to touch.

When you are miles away from each other,
and all you can do is smile
hoping that one of these days
all of those memories will come alive.

There was always
distance between us;
we both acknowledged this.
But now, it burns too hot -
it's already summer
yet we're still cold.

Are 'alone' and 'lonely' the same thing?
Are you as alone in a crowd
as you are by yourself?
Is your loneliness the mist
floating on the water
or the lurking creatures
beneath the sea?

You didn't recoil from my touch,
you didn't run from my soul,
you just didn't want me
the way I wanted you.

I'm not a good person,
I'm just a somebody that
does good things.
All of my sins can be
swept under the rug
in exchange for hollow gestures
and empty kindness for those
who do not mean me harm.
I am not a good person,
but it's easier to get away
with more when you wear the mask.

I am no doctor,
but this love you are describing,
may be in your heart.
Find her, or you could die.
Or maybe this love is a poison
leaving your body.
Withdrawal *****, I know,
but then again, I'm no doctor,
I am but a stranger.
Your story has been told,
a billion times over.
Do you have a pen?
Do you have a heart?

All at once,
it hits me that it’s been you
this whole time.
Like wine in a heart-shaped glass,
this love fills my heart
filling all the holes
others left behind.

Awake and thinking about you
and all things we didn't say.
On nights like this I find myself
wishing you were still in my reach
We both still live in the same big city
but it’s not the place we knew.

I feel you slip away
your grip loosens by the second
I'm stretching out my hand
but you don't look up
no, you only stare down
into the abyss below.
I don't know why
you gave up on me
or why I couldn't save you.
I gave it my all
and you still let go.

I know a girl
on the other side of the world
she's my flesh and blood
my heart and soul
but I'm stuck with the blues
the baby blues now

You are the poem
I will never stop trying
to write.

Sure, I am just a passenger
in this story of your life
but each ride exhilarates me;
it rocks me to my core
and leaves me wanting more.
I always leave with a smile,
like we drove to the top of the world;
the perfect stop to drop me off
and let loose the butterflies
I collected along the way.

I fall in love a little bit more
each time we are together.
The sun warms up,
the moon glistens brighter,
as does your smile,
whenever I'm with you.

I was reading over your poetry,
again.
Like somehow, if I repeat it
enough times
you would come back
and I would find myself
in your words
again.

Depression doesn’t care for
the size of your bank account,
or tire from how many laps you can run.
It doesn’t care how bright the sun is
or who holds you in each night.
Depression sneers at all those photographs
lined upon your bedside table.
It won’t ask to use your emotions
to taint them and everything
that may hold some light to the dark.

For a few months,
you’ll think you’re making progress;
don’t fool yourself,
You haven’t even started.
Everything will smell like him.
Your pillow,
your clothes,
even the air.
You'll even still have their cards and photos
lined upon your bedside table.
You'll get drunk,
and you'll send them poems you wrote,
and songs that remind you of them.  
They'll tell you you’re a good writer,
and this will be the last real thing
they ever say to you.
You'll find you won't be able to write
if it's not about them,
they still plague your mind,
your thoughts,
and your dreams.
The first poem you write that’s not about them
will feel like victory at last.
It won’t be.
They'll always find a way
to slither back into your words.
Your friends will keep listening to you weep,
as they weep over the one that got away too.
They come and go in the middle of your favorite songs,
between each beat you see their smile,
and their beauty in every piece of art;
their beauty in every stroke.
Whenever someone asks you what your favorite color is,
you just want to say 'their eyes'.
They light up like a lake in twilight,
like the moon you shared your first kiss below.
You'll want to go back there for closure.
You still haven’t done it yet.
You aren’t ready to let go.
If you do go you know it'll only make it worse.
And for the rest of your life,
you will be hoping to meet someone
as magical as them.
Every soul that catches your eye,
you won’t really be looking at them.
You’ll be searching for them.
You’ll never find them again.

Another year,
another piece of me
that is getting
left behind.

Your heart isn’t true;
not anymore.
And now this feeling of blue
leaves me unsure
because I can’t believe you;
can’t see you the same no more.

I wait for you
In my thoughts,
and in my dreams.
I don't know how long you'll take,
all I know is that you'll be here soon.
My reach is far,
and my hopes are big,
after coming to the realization
that you probably won't come,
and that this is all
in my head.

There's a fog that will not lift
It blocks my path;
all I can do is drift.
Despite how lost I may be,
I still see a light
in front of me.
I cannot tell just what it is,
a figure, maybe even you
or a me I never knew.
The figure still shines and I follow
through the shadow and cold.
Lead the way, tell me where to go.

Dear May,
You’ve been good to me so far.
The days last longer and the air is warming.
But most of all, you've brought clarity.
But these days,
though I am more at peace
I feel a storm coming;
a war within myself.
As good as you have been,
we know these days cannot last.
But thank you, May,
you’ve been good to me.

From known to unknown
From almost to finished
From together to alone
From whole to perished
From safety to danger
From different to normal
From before to after
From devil to angel
From chaos to routine
From angry to placid
From ***** to clean
From bold to timid
From everything that was me
To everything I've feared to be

I ache for skies I have not seen,
and for people I have not met.
But most of all,
I ache for you.

I rehearse the words
I want to say to you
over and over again in my head.
Tonight I should be sleeping,
but I have to think this through;
I have to get this right.
I’m pretty certain I’m just another
face to you, or, that’s what I’m becoming.
But you were never just another face.
And you will never be just another face.
Nor will you become a distant memory;
I will always carry you close to my heart
even though I’m pretty sure
I never got close to yours.

You’re in a weird place right now;
you feel like you don’t know which way is up
and which way is down,
and you know everyone
says to just follow your heart,
but you don’t know where it is.
It’s in that clearing where you left it.
It’s in the summer air.
It’s in a love you haven’t touched.
It’s in a song you haven’t listened to.
A book you haven’t read.
You’ll find it again,
you will,
just please,
don’t stop looking.

I’m missing what we had;
love, lust - whatever you want to call it,
it doesn't matter.
What mattered was the warmth of your touch,
that angel voice that could melt my worries away,
the safety of your hand in mine,
the safety in your arms.
Call it what you will;
you could even call it a garden:
a sea of blood-red roses,
blooming, blessing all it touched.
But like many roses,
some of them had thorns.
In the end, we found ourselves torn,
pierced and wounded from our roses.
My thorns still remain,
lodged deep in my heart;
do yours still sting?
Nevertheless,
I still tend do our garden,
do you?

We’re jumping from island to island
on an ocean
in the clouds;
It doesn’t matter
Anyway.

Roses are red?
Violets are blue?
April sees the end for spring
and I am dead to you.

Have you ever
heard a tale of a phoenix
falling in love with a
wolf in sheep’s clothing?
One was rebirth
and the other was betrayal.
What good could come of
their tangled and violent embrace?