Poet, be not afraid.
There are far worse things than
Bad poetry.

Keep writing; like a child keeps
Drawing with the purest of
Disregards to likeness.

The more stones you turn, the more
Gems you produce.

The more ink you rain,
The more gracious your written
Children grow.

All flexing builds muscle.

Rough bricks form castles.

Even Dalì carved canvases to shreds
And started anew
Not caring too much.
Not caring

Too much
To keep painting.

We dreamed of becoming more than what we were.
And we escaped in the smoke that filled the room.

Our souls trapped...
Jailed behind our ribcages.

So we sat there...
Changing out the records.
Mouthing all the lyrics.

Waiting for the perfect moment to speak words.
Those times never came...

Instead we became more silent.

Inhaling the smoke.
Exhaling it all the same.

And I sat there wondering what else was out there.

I felt so comfortable in your surroundings.
Too high to realize what was really going on.

I broke the cycle.
The routine of a roller coaster ride that wasn't fun.
Longing for something more.
Wondering if I deserved better.

Even when I thought you were the best...
I started to question that.

My love for you may never die...
But my addictions did.

My tears brought on the clouds.
And I had to follow the sun.

No more.
No more tears.
No more love to give to you.

was it not enough
that i loved you and
you loved me?
(and i was never even sure
of the latter
until you said it
right before you tried
to **** yourself
for the ninth time or so.)

you never said it
out loud,
not in specific terms,
not right to me;
my best friends told me
that is why
i should be wary
of how strongly i felt
about you.

but i'm the one
you thought you should say
your last "i love you" to,
the one to show all of your
pretty black and white
versions of pretty flowers
to. i'm dying, trying to
think of what your
night garden looks like
and where in it you wanted
your best friend to find you.

You keep pulling
Tugging
Never knowing my limits
Until I snap!

when I lived with Kyle, we had a shot glass on our bathroom counter we kept there. A small house spider made its home inside of it. Every night before I went to bed I would tell it; Good night Westley, Good work. Sleep well. I'll most likely **** you in the morning.