You're a locked door with the sign 'do not enter,'
but there are duplicates of the key you lent out once.
The sky becomes a blanket, and the sun is no longer out;
and strangers come through the door -gone by morning.

There's only so much company that can be found in an empty bottle,
so you make it two empty bottles, and grab an empty hand
and dance under the flawed moon,
and like an hourglass fall slowly into familiarity
-by morning you're left with the same empty feeling
(and a terrible headache.)

They come waltzing in uninvited,
friends of the unconscious mind,
and enemies to the sober.

You're a locked door with the sign 'do not enter,'
if I was offered the key I would not take it.
I patiently knock.

(NJ2014) (All Rights Reserved)

I'm trying real hard to keep this together but it's falling apart,
can't keep it from being severed,
but I'm hoping to keep you by my side at least just for the night
I'm trying to make you realize that I don't want this to be goodbye.

But I can't keep screaming at the moon
while she's screaming in your room,
while my bones are shaking cold,
she's found home within your arms.

So, I'm saying goodbye,
but I'm hoping you'll tell me please don't go.

I don't know why I keep trying to be right for you.
'cause we're from places worlds apart,
and we'll never see it through,
when I see you,

I'm hoping to keep you by my side.
I don't want to leave.
but you never told me,
don't go.

(NJ2014) (All Rights Reserved)

Each time I see you,
you're a new you.

Unfortunately,
that is true.

Never will you meet someone like me,
I'm many people distinctively.
I change my mind all the time,
one night I'll be fine,
in the morning I'll be a crime scene.

My preferences changes endlessly,
one day I want something,
the next it wont mean a thing to me.

Does that scare you?
Well, don't let it.

'Cause through all my changes,
you're the one thing that remains the same;
I'll always prefer you.

(NJ2015) (All Rights Reserved)

Spinning around his room,
walk to the mirror,
put on some red lipstick,
I feel great.

What's wrong with you?

What do you mean? I feel great!
Spinning around his room
without a care in the world.

Are you on drugs?

No silly, I just feel great!
Spinning around his room,
stumbling off balance.

What is wrong with you!?

I feel grea-
hands grab my wrist,
pull me from my spin,
light eyes turn dark
his stare in my eyes

What is wrong.

Next thing, I'm crying into my palms

it'll be alright,
and he holds me tight.

Hug me forever, don't let go.

I wont.

Hug me forever,
cause once you stop
I have to go.

And he lets go,
what does that mean?

I have to go,
I don't want to hurt to be happy,
I can't dance anymore,
this was our finale,
and this is the end of the show.

(NJ2015) (All Rights Reserved)

A new disease called madness and I'm it's current victim; setting my teeth into the veins of those whose blood run cold around me -can't you feel this fire burning behind my eyes? My lips are poisoned and I'm trying to infect you -get you addicted so that you can't leave me.

Take me away from these white walls and white sheets,
my head is spinning with all of the colours I can not see;
am I hallucinating or can I see beneath the painted cage?

There's a new drug called infatuation and I'm addicted;
they said it would take away the madness, but it only enhanced it.
Spend a night with me, take a shot of these words,
drown them until they sit heavily in your stomach.

Follow me into my madness,
and you'll understand why it drives me crazy,
but I never want to leave.

Let's get crazy.

(NJ2015) (All Rights Reserved)

I'm only happy when I'm sad.  -all poets

You don't touch me anymore.

We lay on your bed and watch MTV,
you right behind me -but you don't touch me anymore.

Two parallel tracks cutting through a familiar road;
once we collided, since then you've stayed on track
-now I'm a trainwreck.

How many times can I cross your path,
how many times can I wait until you pass
before my engine explodes and I scream?
So close, yet so far -why don't you touch me anymore?

The difference between you and I
is after the collision,
you've had passengers,
and I've only had test drives.

I'm trainwrecked.

(NJ2014) (All Rights Reserved)

You could say I'm selfish,
I know you're not right for me,
and I know she loves you,
and I know you love her too,
but I still want you.

You could say I'm careless,
because I know the mess I'm getting into,
and I know my father won't necessarily like you,
and I know you could never like me the way I want you to,
but I still want you.

You could say I'm fatal to myself
because I know you're going to hurt me again,
and I know that there will be an end,
and I know that you can't ever love me,
but I still want you.

You're everything I am not,
maybe that's why I want you;
to live in a world separate from my own.

Maybe I want you,
or maybe I'm just selfish.

(NJ2014) (All Rights Reserved)

You must forgive me for avoiding eye contact,
it's hard to stare into the eyes of a world I want to experience,
it's hard to be so close, yet so far.

You must forgive me for avoiding you,
it's difficult to pretend I feel nothing
especially when your hand brushes against my skin;
if I'm not near you, that can't happen.

You must forgive me,
I want so badly to find a way into your heart,
but you're just planting more roses around the door
and the thorns are ripping way too deep.

Pardon me if I walk away.

(NJ2014) (All Rights Reserved)

You wore a wrinkled white shirt and distressed jeans,
your bed-head blonde hair and pink eyes screamed exhaustion;
your eyes as hazy from last nights liquor as the hanging morning dew.
but there I was stumbling over speed bumps
while you effortlessly lit a cigarette and walked on by without a problem.

Each time I stumbled, you laughed
- would you continue to if you knew it was because I was nervous?
Or did you find it humourous
that I was tripping over something stable
(you're not stable, but by god, you could fool anybody.)

There we were.
a slightly drunk, lazily dressed boy -looking gorgeous and collected
and a completely sober, lazily dressed girl -a mess on feet
walking together over speed bumps
- maybe I should run.

(NJ2014) (All Rights Reserved)

I want to live life through foggy eyes,
I like when things are faded;
when the streets shimmer with dew,
and the streetlights make the sky look like a low contrast filter,
and the car lights seem more bright, and break through the grey smoke.

Grey on grey: but distinguishable.

Going eighty on the highway: one way.
Not about to stop.
I know my destination, but it's just a pit stop;
home isn't on my map yet.

Two way street and I'm heading one way
- I hope I'm on the right track.

(NJ2014) (All Rights Reserved)

Words have been thrown like vases of flowers,
and the surface has been cracked,
and there are pieces of glass scattered on the floor, I know.
But there are also flowers among them.
The vase was only temporary,
I was hoping to get a new one anyway,
I just didn't want it to have to break in order to get a new one.

I pick off each flower petal and scream in the air
I should've done this, I should've said this
why did I expect you to be the stem,
hold all my unspoken words,
and still be strong and beautiful?
I'm so sorry.

I'll find a new vase,
and I'll water the flowers everyday;
I promise. I promise.
We can turn add new colours,
and place it in the sunlight
-we can plant seeds,
and let it grow in the yard
and never, ever, experience a glass breaking again.

Don't wilt on me now.

(NJ2014) (All Rights Reserved.)

your smoke lingers on my clothes longer than you linger in my life,
and I cannot rinse, wash, and repeat the cleaning process
to rid the stain of you from my mind as I can the stench of your cigarettes.

the first time I met you I mixed the harsh colour of you
with my white dedicates -and now I wear a cloudy grey.
my eyes have been washed out so many times
they're a new shade of brown I've never seen before.

I can't tumble dry the stained marble of my eyes
and I can't fold my sanity as neatly as I can my shirt;
and I can't put you at the back of my closest until I forget you exist.

(NJ2014) (All Rights Reserved)

I want to believe you,
but I don't.
I want to hold you,
but I can't.
I want to kiss you,
but I won't.
I want to let you go,
but I've tried.

I'm a second chance that never comes,
but maybe, just for you, I'll stick around for the third.

(NJ2014) (All Rights Reserved)

She saw him on the streets and suddenly understood
that blood is blue rather than red while in the veins.

(NJ2014) (All Rights Reserved)

I want to say I'm an unopened novel on your bookshelf,
but that would mean I'm the Harry Potter series
(if I remember correctly)
and I might be, I wouldn't know -I've never read them,
but I've been in your hands enough to be a bit worn,
and there could've been so many chapters of us
if you had just opened the first book.

I'm an encyclopedia of a subject
you never got interested enough to read;
so much information, so much to learn
but my cover is plain, and my words are complicated
and there's magazines on your brother's dresser
of beautiful girls and little words,
so why would you ever waste time on me?

But I'm a wine-box full of scripted letters never sent,
and you're downing liquor as if to forget something,
and I hope you never try to forget me.

I wish you downed me like you did of that bottle,
but like old-wine, my cork was tight
and you didn't have the patience to open me.
Old wine has more flavour,
at the surface I'm sober;
at the core, I'm drunk.

We could've fallen in love
if we had taken the time to learn each-other;
but we started as strangers, and ended as strangers,
except now I'm left collecting dust on my own shelf.

I've been writing letters to a stranger
I swear I could have loved.

(NJ2014) (© All Rights Reserved)

I remember sitting on the swings at the park,
you rammed into me and carried me away,
and we fell to the grass.

Your hand found it's way to my throat,
and toyed around with the charm around my neck;
it was switching from purple to red without your touch,
and two different shades of blue within your grasp.

Still on the ground we learned the meaning:
purple means romantic, red means nervous;
dark blue meant lovable, light blue meant relaxed
- is it true, he asked? are you feeling romantic, he teased.

if there was a colour for 'yes, but I'm embarrassed to feel'
it would've changed right there.

I never wore that necklace around him again,
not for any reason, I just never thought anything of it
- strange how a moment is beautiful after it passes.

I wish there was a colour for 'I don't feel a thing for you anymore'
and I wish I had let him hold it each time we were together;
I wish I could see the dark blue fade.

-now I'm left with this solid hue,
this purple charm, and he's no longer around.

(NJ2014) (All Rights Reserved)

I discovered that the sunrise is almost more beautiful than the sunset;
the colours are so vivid, so expressive in comparison to the black night;
the sunset changes the colour of the sky, the sunrise invents colours.

More often than usual I catch the sunsetting rather than rising;
the early hours of the rising sun are the setting time of my eyelids,
- but by god, when I am awake to see it, I'm lost for a moment.

I have a history of comparing past lovers to sunsets;
each one I described as beautiful, breath-taking,
and unfortunately, each has been buried behind mountains as well.

I wait for a love that'll have me singing with the birds at six in the morning, that'll have me peacefully resting before the clock strikes twelve - I wait for the boy that I compare to sunsets, the boy that will no longer just be a metaphor for the setting sun, but the true sun.

The boy that will be the sun, both setting and rising.

(NJ2014) (All Rights Reserved)

My neck was patterned with lines of light pink
from the tight grasp of your hands;
you hovered over me, stared me in the eyes, and screamed
- your mouth tight, your eyes wide.

Your fingers fell south,
and your lips wandered over the pink stripes of my throat
-stinging under affection.
The irony of you kissing away the marks you've left.

The clock stopped, but the hour-hand in your eyes kept spinning,
and I could tell I was almost out of time.
Mental picture, mental note. Stares. Questions. Why?
No reason, no reason -but there was,
and I threw reality at your eyes.
broke the clock, and fast-forwarded to the goodbye before it was time.

Choke me again,
your hands are more comforting than this lack of air.

(NJ2014) (All Rights Reserved)

febuary 11, 2014*

sometimes I find myself
talking to the wall;
but if someone were to catch me,
I'd say I was talking to your ghost.

Though your presence seems dead,
you are still alive to me.

I've kissed you,
and held your hand,
and comforted you,

only to realize,
you're nothing but a blank white wall.

(NJ2014) all rights reserved.

june 10, 2014

what was I  thinking?
a boy who doesn't care about anything,
could never care about me.

how did I expect him to hold me
as tightly as he did that cigarette?
I'm not a flame that burns out,
and when he realized that,
he smashed me on the ground.

I am not a flame that burns out.

I'll submerge the world before me in flames,
and destroy all of which once existed;
there will be no more remains of you and me
except in my memory, god, please take it away from me*

what was I thinking.
oh, what was I thinking.

(NJ2014) all rights reserved.

june 10, 2014*

my head in his lap,
his eyes gazing in mine,
playful fighting,

his finger runs down my arm,
and his arms wrap around me
keeping me captive -keeping me close,
his fingers interlock with mine,
and he opened the cage,
and let the butterflies roam free.

but his eyes are red,
and his breath smells of cigarettes and alcohol;
he could never love me as much as he loves life
when he is drowning by the bottle.

but god, he is beautiful.
and god, how much I'm going to hurt.

(NJ2014) all rights reserved.

june 10, 2014*

his eyes are like grey marbles,
sprinkled with green ivy.
his hair is like sunkissed ocean waves ,
his hands are tsunamis.
he's beautiful and dangerous,
his hands leave the ocean screaming;
his voice ***** like the water hitting the shore
-it acts as a nerve, 'cause I can't help but smile.

when he sings he sings out of tune,
but even still the birds are in awe;

how can something so disastrous be so beautiful?
how can something so right be so wrong?

(NJ2014) all rights reserved.

it's far too cold to just wander around,
and we're too far gone to save anything.

the film plays
a 1950's film
I am lost for a moment;
dancing to the blues and looking into the eyes of a lover -they're grey.
grey eyes. grey skin. grey lips. grey ballroom.
grey. grey. grey. -everything is grey.

But his eyes are a deep grey with light specks,
and the tiles on the floor are patterned with different shades,
and he is dressed with dark grey attire
-but he is the most colourful thing I have ever seen.

In a colourful world you would think things would be complementary;
but the more colourful it appears, the more black and white it is;
the carpet is red, just red, the walls are white, just white,
his eyes are brown. Just brown.
but in this film his eyes are grey -light, grainy, grey.

There's grey in his eyes,
and there's grey all around me,
but my, I seem to have gotten lost;
his eyes are the most colourful things I've ever seen in my life.

the film stops.

(Nicole Joanne) all rights reserved

porcelain skin chipping away,
thick and durable, but still decays;
eyes of class ricocheting, stars dying bright:
scratches seem to never fade,
the wound is deep,
but inner pattern stays.
lasts longer than the marble tile,
will ever a sock slip down these miles?

(NJ2014) all rights reserved.

He threw me against the wall
and swore he loved me,
and the only way
he could make sure I loved him too
was through bruises on my skin.
My heart was spilling,
but it was more blood than love:
more black and blue than pink.

Then I met someone else,
and he ran his fingers through my hair,
down my arm, over the curve of my hip,
he kissed my forehead,
and followed the path to my neck
where he whispered sweet nothings:
but he was gone with sun rise.

I remember his hands as bandages
after the fight -but they only cover so much.

And I remember his cigarette breath
-I hate cigarettes, but I wanted to smoke him so bad,
and when he was gone I felt like I had been addicted all along.

The bandages are gone,
it no longer smells like cigarettes,
and I'm no longer left with bruises
-so why do I feel so lost?
Isn't this what I want?

Is care synonymous to hurt?

Why do all who claim to care
leave me with marks to bear?

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

The perfect world exists within my head,
and it has become my own personal hell.

To be so close, yet so far away
from the only thing you want,
I can see it, I can feel it, I can hear it,
but I can't grab it.

My refuge has become the cause of my tears;
the only thing that makes me happy makes my cry,
my daydreams have become my own personal hell,
my utopia is killing me.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

every boy that has ever ran his fingers on my skin
crawled up from under my bed and invaded the darkness;
he pulled the blanket up over my shaking body,
and brushed his fingers through my tangled hair.

a creature of the night providing me comfort;
he laid his head on the empty side of my pillow
whispering into my hollow head,
signals which would flow through my dry veins
and start the pumping of a disintegrating heart.

his demons kept him awake at night
just as the monsters of my past have me;
his eyes were like a flashlight in the dark room,
this creature was my savior.

but morning comes and he is gone,
my troubles glisten in the sun -everyone runs.
you can't fix by morning what haunts you;
I only date monsters -they keep me company at night;
when my flaws come spilling out but not in bright light.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

Too Much and Not Enough.
I'm the forgotten flower beneath the blanket of snow;
So beautiful in the Summer, but crushed by Winter;
there is such thing as too much.

Water ,the fuel I need,
but too much submerges me,
freezes and restrains me.
I'm wilting.
Too much at once,
and suddenly nothing.
Too much, but not enough;
timing is everything.

Days without rain
and I crumble;
rainy days deluge;
and I let it roll over me.

When Summer rolls around,
will you be there to water me;
or has the Winter left me for dead?
Or will I sprout in the *** of another?

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

I wish I knew the difference between
holding hands and holding on,
before I was hanging over the cliff
of stability and emotion.

The spaces between your fingers
were my safety; they fit so perfectly;
but your fingers fell away like rocks
tumbling quickly into the roaring waters
of someone else’s passion.

My grip so tight on something unstable;
I once compared the feeling of being in your arms
to the wonders of the Earth around me,
but now you’re like gravity,
pulling me down into crashing waves.


My heart breaking apart like eroded rocks
on the surface of the beach;
admiration burning hot like the sun
and breezing over as it sets.

I’m shivering in the arms of the wind,
and holding on to the hands of crumbling rocks;
I wish I knew the difference between holding on and holding hands.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

there's evidence swimming through my veins
signals sent from the brain -he said he loves you
my heart is saying let go, it's just a game
but my brain is saying, then, just play.

words spilled from the mouth like dominoes
knocking down every wall I've built up;
my pores absorbing every silent message
from your touch -silent, but loud.

your eyes screamed with desire
and my lifeless body lusted for care,
your welcoming smile
was just a silent laugh.

if you never said a word,
I wouldn't be the pawn of a losing game,
I wouldn't be filled with empty words.

if you never said a word.

(NJ2014) © All Rights Reserved.

Suitcases of the past flooding from my closet
burying you beneath it;
I am sorry.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

bruises like clouds after sunset,
heart like ice after it's been counter set,
fingers like branches in a hurricane,
eyes like condensing windows in the rain.

one beat, two beat, two beat, two beat,
can't count to three,
my mouth is weak.
can't stop shivering,
trying to speak.

my head is screaming,
and my arms are outreached,
but my voice has broken,
and their palms are in fists.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

clouds move as night arrives,
shape-shifting in movement.
looking for a new home,
soft and slow,
fragile,

but still hurts.
still abandoned.

float away like a cloud,
it still leaves me dark.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

All the weight that once rested on my shoulders
dissipated into the air and was swallowed into my lungs.
My heart still beats, but not without struggle;
it pounds beneath the weight of my regrets.

I never should've let you get so close.
You searched me like a cop in the night,
shining your light on cob-webbed feelings,
and broken down fantasies.

You cleaned me up in hopes to find something,
beneath the law you cannot speak details
and I never knew what it was you were searching for,
but either you found it, or did not,
and never needed to come back again.

You were always a bit messy;
you left fingerprints on my skin,
and evidence in the form of thoughts;
you breathed life into my heaving chest,
only to take with you the rest of the air
I needed to get back on track.

Now I'm covered with yellow and black tape
labeled endlessly with the words 'crime scene,'
and I'm not even putting up a fight.

(NJ2014) © All Rights Reserved.

The cigarette in your mouth burns away with the flame,
and you toss it to the ground once it's done
- but there's a little light still burning,
and to make sure it won't go ablaze.
you stomp on it until it's completely gone.

I was hooked on the way your hands handled me,
the way you could set me on fire with a simple touch of the mouth;
I was burning bright and you were satisfied -how could it be wrong.

Time grabbed you by the hand and took you away from me;
I was growing smaller and smaller with distance,
but from where I stood, I was the same.

You could no longer keep squinting to try to see me,
especially through the smoke of your cigarette.
You could not stand to see the light at the far end of the road,
nor tolerate the tiny, what seemed to be weakening, spark

and so you shut your eyes,
and tossed the cigarette aside.

The cigarette was still burning,
but not strong enough to set the road in flames
and bring you back.

(NJ2014) © All Rights Reserved.

He's the boy with messy blonde hair and emerald eyes;
the kind that can make you blind after some time.
I wish I had known that before I made space for him
on the shelf I call my heart.
His hands were strong, yet gentle,
and they traced every curve
without leaving a mark.

I'm the girl with obviously styled hair, and brown eyes;
in time's company I'm a stranger -so I must always try
to look my best even when I want to cry.

I found myself holding this novel of a boy in my hands,
and quickly much too quickly fell into the pages;
excitement tore the corner of the sheet,
a scar formed on his nose,
and I joked with him
you can't forget me because I've made my mark.

But behind every light giggle there is a truth;
behind every highlighted sentence there is reason.

Here I am physically unscarred by this boy with emerald eyes,
but each night I find myself wondering why he left without a goodbye.
I could only hope that if I was unable to leave an impression
that maybe he will come across the bookmarked page,
the teared sheet and remember me.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

I have a lot to express,
but the words are suppressed.

Can't eat, can't sleep, can't speak.
But that's all I want to do.

I have never felt so lonely
as I've been feeling since I've met you.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

He ran his fingers on my neck,
and ran it down my arm to my waist;
he placed his hand on my hip and pulled me close;
his chin resting on the top of my head,
my body lost in his embrace.

I placed my hand upon his arm
and rubbed with my thumb,

'I could get used to this. I could get used to you.'

I turned my head and locked my eyes with his,
tried to speak, without words, of a kiss;
he looked away.

I haven't felt his arms around me since,
nor looked into his eyes;

that day I fell completely head over heels for him,
was the day he said goodbye.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

I want to live a life where I can wake up
every morning to the sun rising over the ocean,
and a place I can watch the sun set over a forest.

I want to have a German Shepard jumping at my feet
when I open the door and get back from work
work -nothing extraordinary, just something enjoyable.

I want to be able to kiss my significant other
and run my hands through his messy hair
and hear his sleepy voice tell me he loves me
just as much as I love him.

I want a simple life,
but simple seems to be the new complicated.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

Your eyes are beautiful landscapes,
though I see cracks that sprout through them like vines;
it seems as if you've planted roses in the spring,
and come winter you've had nothing but fallen petals to hold.

Your hands are shaking from the intensity to preserve
what is not there anymore, to hold what once filled your skies;
like rolling clouds of thunder; something sharp, something heavy,
disappearing as the sun begins to rise.

I've found myself standing at the archway of your garden,
my hands are calloused and my arms are weak;
I can't promise to be the rain and wash away the remains,
but if you would let me try,
I would love to plant puruvian lilies (they rarely wither)
and help again brighten the garden I call your eyes.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

Darkness teases and invades,
the sun runs away.
Stars stay the night,
but leave with morning light.
The sun not screams with jealousy
but hides behind the mountains;
the moon shines in the dark,
but even still can't hide his crescent
-half there, half empty- heart.

And though the moon spends his night with the stars,
by morning he's back to chasing the one he's always loved;
but he'll never admit that she's the one,
he'd rather hide behind the mountain until she comes up.

The sun and moon are more than friends.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

His eyes were like windows,
opened to the darkness of the night;
his arms a door once opened,
but I've locked the key inside.
I'm pounding on walls trying to get through,
but with a body like a brick wall, it's no use.

There's a fire burning but it's spilling out of the chimney,
and as the snow falls around me I can feel my heart freeze;
it's starting to stab and wound me.
I'm painting pictures on foggy windows
of memories not yet made,
but even so, they fade.

I'm knocking on the door,
I'm ringing the bell,
but this home seems to have become
a place I'm not welcome anymore.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

My eyes are nothing but foggy windows,
my body a door creaking beneath each strangers palm.
With honest hands, steady my shaking limbs before
emotions fall out of my eyes like autumn leaves.
Voice strong like an owl's call, but crisp air chokes,
leaving cries soft like a crickets song.

Tongue like a ballet dancer behind my lips,
searching for the right words to say.
Grab my waist and let's pirouette into words fallen.
Spin into worlds unknown,
Peter Pan promised I'd never grow old.

My eyes are foggy windows,
and you think you have,
but darling, you have seen nothing.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

There are very few things that are beautiful -and remain so.

The way the leaves change into beautiful neutrals at it's time of death,
the way the sun rises and sets with a beauty so awe-striking,
yet remains soundless and subtle.
The way birds continue to sing a sweet song,
though no one could understand them.
The way  the same eighty-six piano keys
can create a combination of different melodies
that can make someone either cry or laugh in joy.
The way the rain can wash away all the troubles of yesterday,
how despite setting, the sun will always rise again.

How someone so average,
can be the world to someone;
can age and break apart,
and still be the most beautiful creation
to someone who was once a stranger.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

I like to think the sun has it's moments of strengths,
along with it's moments of weakness.

There's times when he's on top of the word,
shining brighter than ever, striking everyone's eyes.
At these times, he knows he is setting,
but the sky is his stage, and he's ready to put on his best show.

Other times, he's fragile and broken.
The sky, his cheeks, in which tears stream,
lightening the colours into soft pastels;
his complexion a blushing pink,
eyes a subdued blue with splashes of gold cries.

Even beautiful things have their days,
but even at their times of struggle,
though they feel not adequate,
dependent on perception,
there's someone who
finds them beautiful
beyond belief.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

Daydreaming always satisfied me more than real life;

the pictures in my head were always more beautiful
when they were simply figments of my imagination.
I feel I have lived many lives within my head,
and not even merely one during this lifetime.

I have climbed up mountains and dived off of them,
I have sailed across the ocean, and swum across the sea;
I have fallen in love, and believed they too had fallen in love with me.

I've jumped from cloud to cloud, and crossed the sky from day to night,
I've ran a full circle around the world before seasons could change;
I've held his hand and kissed his lips, and I've lost myself in his eyes.

I've skated on broken ice, and ran across water,
I've discovered the meaning of life,
but decided the list should be longer.

I've lived a million lives within my head,
but left very little footprints in the dirt;

I wish he was all in my head,
so what we had would be beautiful,
and would never hurt.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

When you look into her eyes
I hope you find yourself drowning in the middle of the sea.
Her eyes may be pretty,
but they're no life-raft.

You're a cliff-hanger,
flirting with danger,
and I'm the jealous rocky mountain
about to lose her last rock.

Don't hold on to me.
(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

I'm ready for something real.
I'm tired of being the curtains that are pulled closed every-night.

I once gave a boy my glass heart, and he held it dear,
and then, he moved away. And I was packed inside a box,
it was labeled, 'fragile,' 'handle with care.'
It wasn't for months that I saw the sun,
and when I did, I couldn't tell the difference
between artificial, and sunlight.
Once again, he held me in his hands,
but they were rough and calloused;
the security was gone.

I was placed in a corner where I was rarely touched again,
and one night something terrible must've happened,
my smooth exterior seemed to have sharpened at the edges,
and he placed me in a bin, never to be seen again.

There's vases that hold flowers,
and there's vases that are placed in china cabinets;
I'm tired of being falsely decorated.
I'm tired of having to hold everything in,
and be expected to be the beautiful centerpiece
for everyone to glance at, and walk by.

I am beautiful, but I am not a centerpiece.
I am also a collection of flaws;
I'm translucent: all my emotions flood,
and I'm fragile; I tend to break at the slightest touch,
and I'm empty,
until someone fills me up.

But I want something real.
I don't want to hold plastic flowers,
that will never fade away.
I want to hold the beautiful rose
and at it's prime time,
though I will cry,

I can say it was real.
I can say he was mine.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.