you give me your jacket when it's freezing outside,
and i want so badly to be better for you. you deserve
so much more than someone who thrives on saltwater
tears and the numbers on scales.

you hold my hands when they're shaking and i wish
that you wouldn't because you shouldn't have to take
care of me. you deserve someone that can look at the
world like it's beautiful.

i'm just so sorry that i can't be better.

479

She dealt her pretty words like Blades—
How glittering they shone—
And every One unbared a Nerve
Or wantoned with a Bone—

She never deemed—she hurt—
That—is not Steel’s Affair—
A ****** grimace in the Flesh—
How ill the Creatures bear—

To Ache is human—not polite—
The Film upon the eye
Mortality’s old Custom—
Just locking up—to Die.

You are my moon.
I know it's a metaphor and
I know it's prone to misinterpretation
But isn't that what's great about metaphors?

You are the sky.

What do you mean?

It means what it means and what you think it means.

What do you think it means?

It doesn't matter what I think it means.

But you wrote it, didn't you? You ought to know.

That's the thing about writers. We write things and we don't know
what they mean, really. For there is not one frame for each line
and each picture we paint. It's about writing masterpieces that can be
broken down to different pieces. Maybe even to the point that it is
crushed to sand and turned to dust. Dust flies away with the wind and
if poetry might turn to dust, then I will be glad.

-D.D.

You find the reason to everything and anything because
it makes you feel safe, but I
--can't kiss you without you
wanting to tell me that
my eyelids flutter because my eyes
get dry and they need to protect themselves from all the
pathogenic **** that flutters around me but I'm
really just trying to get a better look at you,

why don’t you let me look at you.

Then I begin to cry and you say why tears are tears,
and that you wanted a “simple life” with me  but
youre too busy identifying the complexity of things
that you can’t even feel because they lay within your heart, not your hands.

I’m right in front of you but your
voice begins to raise and you speak the science of presence
and you tell me that i’m your soulmate because your subconscious doesn't always feel so alone when i’m standing right beside
you and that you need me to survive but you
can't always kiss me because you’re too busy saying that the reason why
I think you taste good
when you kiss me is because
we meant are for each other.

While I’m in your arms you begin to analyze
my paragraph of life and how
it fits so perfectly beneath yours.
But then you rearrange your words
and place some in between mine
and then I realize I’m the just the loosely placed parenthesis around your
syntax of life.

Sorry if I'm rude or unpleasant
I just can't breath
These whirling winds of conflict
Don't sit well on my shoulders
I don't do well under pressure
Of a blanket and hopeful eyes
Excuse me if I snap
I just have whiplash
Things never sit straight in my mind
I think I've forgotten how to be

The best poem I’ve ever written was for you
Or was it for me
It was filled with words of spite
And passion
Very descriptive words I might add
I must admit
You do inspire me
Like the sun inspires the flowers
To grow
Or the moon inspires wolves
To howl
I think the word wolves sounds funny when you say it
And there I go getting off topic again
Whether I’m writing for you
Or writing for me
The sky is an awful shade of blue today