A crystal pitcher; aptly made
My trembling hand upon it laid
Then to my lips, I did lift
With loving sips upon more sips
To feel the wet and languid kiss
Of innocence amiss.

You’re not a poet because you know those ‘fancy’ words
You’re a poet because every word you write comes straight from your heart

You’re not a poet because people admire your work
You’re a poet because you write for your own contentment and not for people's consent

You’re not a poet because you feel alone
You’re a poet because pen and paper are your biggest companions

You’re not a poet because you understand emotions better
You’re a poet because you let them flow freely

You are not a poet because you’ve failed in love
You’re a poet because you’ve been in love deeper than anyone else

You’re not a poet because you are strong
You’re a poet because you don’t hide your weaknesses

You’re not a poet because you can heal hearts
You’re a poet because you know what it means to be broken

You don’t text or call,
Not when I needed you to.
I sit in the bath.
It’s hot, that’s the first thing on my mind.
As the sweat starts to form,
I think of all I’ve done wrong  
As my cheeks turn pink from the heat,
I ask myself why I deserve this.
I want to get out,
But I can’t seem to stand.
I want to fall asleep,
But I can feel my heart beat.
It’s beating so fast,
Like my chest will explode.
I wish you would text
Or call, I don’t know.

Writing wages war on the monsters inside me.
I pierce them with my pen and lay them down to die.