The love runs through my veins,
although currently I have a blood clot,
at a younger age I slipped through the chains,
although I fear I have finally been caught.
As these thoughts begin to swell up inside of my heart,
and my heart begins to slowly tear apart,
I realize there is no going back to the start.
I must rebuild and reset my shredded insides,
in an attempt to maintain these growing tides,
for the love building up in me cannot be contained,
which leads me to funnel my love to be drained.
But do not worry as it will not be wasted,
as I will drain it out into your soul,
and I will continue until my heart is fully basted,
or until we are whole.

Why must I sell myself
for your approval,
when I'm loved by so many
or so I'm told.
Why must I pretend
to care for your woes,
when I have so many
or so i tell myself.
Why must I love
when I am not in love,
I have so many to love
but nobody who loves me.

My hands are wrapped around your throat,
gripping tightly as I squeeze the life from you,
with your eyes fixated upon my chest,
where my heart used to be.
Your frequent gasps struggle to keep you afloat,
as you change to the most beautiful shade of blue,
I always found this to be you at your best,
when you are down to your knees.

Don't resist and don't fight,
for only I can remove my hands from your neck,
to peel them away would be a burden,
when it is so much easier to just let you die.

Oh how I fight,
so that my heart is always with you,
with the temptation my chest tight,
but I always will hold true.
As the thoughtless lustful bodies fill my eyes,
attempting to distract me with an ****** twist,
I recognize they will be my demise,
and create an opportunity which will be missed.
Because my dear, you are but a miracle,
carefully crafted by what one could only assume to be a god,
our love is almost satirical,
causing every potential disaster to appear as only a broad.
With my heart trapped in your hands,
it is slave to your hearts demands.

My thoughts when I am with you are impossible to see,
I am unable to decipher thoughts residing in me,
the tension in my mind, tight like a wire,
as  rages on inside me, bright as a wildfire.

What makes you so special is not just your image,
(although that surely helps invoke some thought)
but the mind behind the eyes which light up so bright,
as if within the brain there is no need for privilege,
nothing needed and nothing bought,
with a gentle soul that was purely white.

You free me from the binds within my soul,
as I recognize the potential of what is to come,
without you, within me there is merely coal,
unable to light the fire, as I would merely be numb.

I’m supposed to write you a poem,
About the love I have for you,
I’m supposed to write you a poem,
About how you make the sky blue.
But that simply is not true.
Saying your smile makes my stomach churn,
Or that my heart is tightened by a string,
For all I care, every one of these words can burn.
Because my love, they would not describe a thing.

You see Mon Amour, I am not very good with words,
Yet I feel that would not help anyways,
When I see you my voice flies away like the birds,
As I’m stuck with my mind in a daze.
My heart begins to pump, as adrenaline hits,
Confounded by your beauty in more ways than one,
Suffocating my brain and removing me of my wits,
Holding my voice back, as the words escape at a run.

It is not that you are not beautiful, smart, and everything in between,
It is that whatever can describe you, is nothing I have ever seen.

I killed him I think,
because of some out of context quotes,
I was the cement tied to his feet which made him sink.
He did not hear what I had to say,
out of sight, out of mind,
And yet he is who had to pay.
These are the psychological consequences of life,
believing I caused undue harm,
because I spoke of the knife.
But that is merely the facts of life,
I did not stab, swing or poke,
at the end of my gun there is no smoke.
There are merely words which came from my mouth,
nothing deadly,
nothing that sent him South.
Yet I feel a harrowing burn,
a fire in my soul,
that it will someday be my turn.

I love sadness like I hate my poetry; as they both equate to only drawn out pain.

For my poetry is not like the art which I have grown accustomed to; nor is sadness similar to its depiction in media.
While writing can relinquish my heart into incoherent sentences, omitting me from pent up thought.
Yet, sadness fills me with pain,
allowing me to appreciate my emotional chain.
Teaching me how love and lust can create a chaos so spectacular,
while recognizing my poetry may not be very vernacular,

But that is okay,
because I don't really give a ****.

You recently left,
I was there the last day.
It felt like a theft,
How you were taken away.
But I understand that is how it goes,
Can you at least listen to what I propose?
We go to the park and hang around there,
I can grab some food and give you a bit because that's fair.
Then go home and get some sleep,
And I'll always have you as mine to keep.
But now I hear you are happy as ever,
And knowing that my bond will never sever.

Your opinion is not fact,
I know, I know, how could I act,
with such little tact.
To tell you that what you believe,
is not true, only trying to deceive.
But when you look beyond the truth,
using facts you have had since youth,
you are bound to create an emotional bond,
which you will use to respond.
But use the numbers in front of your eyes,
the statistics will not tell you lies,
deaths are rising,
violence is increasing,
but you reject the idea of policing.
Let us be free to decide,
and you hold your morals with pride,
but not everyone is like you,
even you yourself is not so true.
People will lie and manipulate,
in order to control others' fate.
So please take a second right there,
the facts may just give you a scare,
but the truth is that they are there,
this cannot be fixed by a prayer,
so please do not leave the truth to spare.

Your presence is like the wind,
I'll feel your wispy hands running through my hair.
Your presence is like the wind,
Slowly causing weather and wear.
Your presence is like the wind,
I'm always looking, but you're never there.

Our love was like those cigarettes you smoked,
so hot it can put a hole in your heart,
the smoke fills our veins and we began to choke,
and the cigarette died before the fire could start.

Look at what I've done,
do you even see?
The work that I've completed,
it's what defines me.
At least that is what I say,
when I discuss my work to some,
but that is not what is at play,
to your opinions I succumb.

How can I stop this feeling,
of pining for approval,
and begin my personal annealing,
to fight your disapproval?