I've never been anything more than almost.
Almost his. Almost gone. Almost there.
There's comfort in 'not quite.'
You can't exactly lose something you never had, right?
(Almost, not quite.)

I have never gained, but I have lost.
I've learned that losing a winning silver
hurts more than losing a hand-me down gold;

To lose the gold is to lose a gift,
to lose the silver is to lose award;
if I put my all in something, isn't it right to say I deserved it?

Sometimes you work so hard you deserve gold,
but you only get silver;
if that isn't unfair enough,
sometimes you don't get any.

I've learned that people are not metals;
and you could put the effort of gold into someone
and only receive the silver of them;
and even still, they may not deem you the winner.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

What am I to do when the words are screaming within my head,
when the arms of the letters are engaged in a wrestling match
and they're ignoring the referees constant pleas to stop;
what is the referee to do when they're driving him mad?
What is he to do when they're driving him crazy?

The fights only exist in the ring, in the head,
for they don't even exist in the outside world.
Spoken word is nothing but dressed up thoughts;
nothing but children in costumes on Halloween night.
The referee can not exist outside,
neither can the battling words;
so how is he to get any peace of mind?

What is one to do when the things he's meant for drive him crazy,
what does one do when the only thing fueling him holds him back?
How does one free themselves from themselves?

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

The closest she has ever gotten to romance
is through the imagery placed between the words
of romance novels.

Only is it here that rebel boys fall for innocent girls;
for how long could strong arms hold shaky bones
without breaking them?

He spends his nights getting lost in the bottle,
she spends hers lost in blank pages;

Her whole life is a written story
in the little composition notebook hidden beneath her bed;
the way his hands ran across her skin will only ever be as real
as the way the pencil ran hastily across the page the next hour.

Why would a spark-plug guy like him
ever find himself at the door of a girl
who only ever loses herself in romance novels.

Maybe the reason she flaunts herself
is not because she's confident,
but because her hourglass figure
fits nicely in his hands.

She feels secure when his fingers
move slowly from her ribs to her hips,
like the way wine racks keep glass bottles
from smashing to the ground.

She's fragile and transparent,
but he fills her with feeling,
and for that moment,
she doesn't feel empty;
she's vivd and colourful,
supplying liveliness.

Maybe she flaunts herself because
eyes turn glassy and watery,
and at least she can influence something.

Maybe she just hopes that one day he'll hold her
as tightly as he does that glass of wine.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

The first time I lied to my parents
was the day I found myself at your doorstep.

The surroundings were, to myself, foreign,
just as you were to me; unfamiliar, but welcoming.
I found myself shifting my fear through my feet,
hoping you wouldn't notice how nervous I was.

I've always abided to rules and structure,
but my construction collapsed when you held me for the first time,
and I ripped up the sequenced map I created in my mind;
it was the first time I found comfort in uncharted territory,
I was ready to get lost.

You take my hand and lead me through paths,
your eyes, yet another place unknown, like a forest;
and I couldn't keep my legs from sprinting.
Your hair, sandy waves, I couldn't wait to run my fingers through;
your arms, a safe-haven, a boat, I didn't mind getting carried away in.

That day I walked through the door,
I never thought I would get lost at sea,
and have trouble finding my way back out.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

Never look into anyone's eyes.
Always make eye contact.
But never look into anyone's eyes.

I remember looking at your eyes
and seeing different shades of green;
and splatters of gold and blue.
(or maybe they were just green;
I haven't seen you in a while,
and I have a tendency to romanticize.)
But I never looked into your eyes.

Like a prison, lines cross  your pupils;
I know if I slip through them I will be stuck,
I will be locked up and held hostage;
but curiosity is a delinquent
and he's made a home inside of my head.

I've always been drawn to sadistic and broken,
love the idea that I could be the medicine needed to satisfy;
but truth of the matter is, despite my efforts to try,
I'm only a placebo and you know so.

I've never looked into your eyes,
but I've looked at them,
and man, how I've thought endlessly about
what lies behind them.

Call me intrusive, because I am.
I want to know when you last cried,
and why? Is that why there's blue sprinkled on your eyes?
When was the last time you smiled, genuinely?
'Could I ever make you as happy
as the moment you are trying to relive
when you're downing that bottle?

I've never looked into your eyes,
but I've thought and made it so.
I'm prison-bound.*

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

I saw it coming-
footsteps leading out the door,
heart still in my hands.

(NJ2014) ©All Rights Reserved.

I identify you with the smell of cigarettes.
You've never been to my house,
but my father smokes too.

Father always said,
boys will break your heart,
take from you what they want and leave.
I'm sorry, dad.
Your little girl fell too hard
for a boy with a nicotine scent,
and deep forest eyes.
I should've listened.

You've tried to shelter me,
but I've always been someone
with a knack for adventure,
and an interest in mystery.

He rolled my poetry up,
took my match heart,
and set it on fire.

I knew I was lighting a flame,
but I didn't know it'd go out with the wind.

I don't think he cares,
I was set on fire,
and there's not even ashes there.
I went up in smoke,
and for all he knew,
I disappeared.

Daddy,
please stop smoking,
you smell like him.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

You kissed me like you meant it,
as if I was the firewood and you were the flame.
It seems we tried to set it a-light
each time we came together,
but there was only a little spark.
I thought something was wrong.

I soon found that I am the car running on empty,
and you are the loaded machine;
I am the wood, I am the fire,
and you are the gasoline.

You tried to set love on fire,
just so that you could enjoy the sparks.
The fun is over, and
Now I'm burned.

(NJ2014) All rights Reserved.

When I kiss you I will do so
with the intensity of all my bottled up sadness,
with the amount of desire
I have yet to give to all I want but cannot have,
with the hidden passion I have
for all that I am restrained from doing.
When I kiss you it will be soft and careful
like the pieces of me I hide,
and then I will gradually feed you all the anger
I’ve suppressed for the sake of others.

When I kiss you
it will be full of emotion.
When I kiss you
it will be for all reasons;
desire, anger, sadness and happiness

When I kiss you it will be for all reasons,
except love.

(NJ2014) © All Rights Reserved.

Please don't walk away.
Understand, I wasn't always this way.
I have a haunting past,
and I would tell you about it but you have never asked.

My past is something I'd rather not discuss.
If you did ask my hands would probably start shaking,
my eyes would go blank, and my mouth mute.
I'd break the silence with "I don't know where to start,"
and "it's a story so long, I wouldn't want to bore you."

But if you're leaving because of something I do,
please don't go without hearing me through.
I've got issues of trust and anxious habits,
lungs of rust, and a heart to match it.

A high-voltage heart with one too many sparks;
someone once set it on fire, I'm too scared to restart.
At first my hands shake, and my heart pounds,
my words dissipate, and my eyes lock to the ground.
I can't move my feet, scared to fly off the ground;
I once rose so high, and fell onto the floor,
scratches and bruises, a concussion, I'm sure;
can't risk hitting the ocean, don't want a parting spark no more.

So before you leave please understand,
I'm not just an attic light that wont burn bright;
it may take time, but it's just a little dust,
I don't mind if you try to clean me up.


The door is wide open, but so are your arms,
if you want to leave, do as you want,
the outlet is empty, and so are your palms;
plug me in before you throw away the key;

plug me in before you leave,
but before you do so, please,
dry your hands.

Give me a chance.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

I was always the girl saying,
"love is nothing but a game,
boys will break your heart,
and teenage relationships
only result in pain."

I was so smart back then.

Here I am now drowning in the rubble of myself,
a boy with a fast car sped through the paths of me;
I thought he was free-riding down my highway,
enjoying the sights of me,
but he ended up destroying scenery
and damaging my roads;
where do I go?

I was so smart back then.

I'm lost in the house of my structure,
feeling like a stranger within my own column bones.
I'm stuck with a lack of trust, and a craving of lust;
if his arms aren't around me,
where is home?

I was so smart back then.

My words used to penetrate successfully;
now they fall short to his sweet nothings.
My eyes used to be so full of passion,
now they're filled with nothing but fear.

I was so smart back then.
Why didn't I listen.

(NJ2014) © All Rights Reserved.

There were so many hues, I thought it was art.

The colours blended together
in a way I could never understand,
but the confusion and mystery intrigued me.

The frame; so well built, so beautiful;
strong, and carved so uniquely;
bridges and bumps, cracks and dents;
ancient detail and scars.

My eyes wander,
drifting aimlessly,
only to soon find myself lost;
thoughts in different directions.
Landscapes of green, blue, gold;
black starless skies,
and sunny mornings.

A picture framed on the wall,
but I don't feel a thing
if I can't touch.

I guess I was wrong.
I thought it was art.


(NJ2014) © All Rights Reserved.

How can you look into my eyes and tell me you care
when your gaze is burning holes in my brain?
You held me close and ran your fingers, searching for delicacy;
I thought it was because you wanted to protect me,
you knew it as a way to control me.

When you locked your hands in mine,
you said you promised you'd never leave;
I didn't know you meant it figuratively;
please, stop haunting me.

You spoke sweet nothings,
made me smile, made me happy,
but I only soon found that they were just that:
sweet, bitter, sugar-coated
empty words of nothing.

How can you hold my hand
and dig your nails so deep
into the creases of my fingers
and invade my blood-stream

only to tell me to forget you.

(NJ2014) © All Rights Reserved.

All she ever wanted was someone to look into her eyes
and tell her they would rather get lost in her milky way
than in the blue skies of another.
She wanted arms to be wrapped around her in the way
the cover of a book would its pages: tight and secure,
but loose enough to let her story build on.
How many times can a person fall in love and not be loved in return?
How many words can be wasted on people who will never read them?
Why dress up sadness in beautiful metaphors?

Daydreaming of someone looking at her as if she was the metaphor
for all things beautiful and sad in life,
how though a rose may be sharp-stemmed
he'd endure the thorns and adore the petals;
dreaming of finding that someone
who will see the pink beneath the red
and know that though passionate as she is.
there's a fragile little girl hidden, scared.

How many times can you watch the sun set and rise,
only to build up fantasies and beautiful lies?
Dancing on a field of green under the colours of the world;
I swear there's a colour that has not yet been observed.
I dream I dance beneath it, with his hand in mine;
I identify with a colour that has not yet been inscribed;
who would hold a hand of one that is not confirmed?
Who will see the colour if neither can I?

She writes poetry in an attempt to become a poem herself,
in the eyes of someone else.

(NJ2014) © All Rights Reserved

I wish I could say that I told you I was fragile,
that the last boy who loved me left without a goodbye,
and that in the midst of trying to bring him back home
I realized I was nothing but glass and ended up falling to the floor,
left cracked and scattered.

I thought you were the broom that could sweep me back together,
but you only made a path so that you could walk by unharmed;
you left the swept up pieces in the dust pan,
I didn't know you'd soon throw them away.

There's little pieces of me still sliding around on the wooden floor,
I should've known you wouldn't try to put me back together.
I wish I could say I warned you of my sharp edges
and the amount of tears I've accumulated,
but you saw the flowers I held,
and I didn't think much of the dirt;
nor did I ever think you'd create more weight.

You watered the flowers so much they drowned,
and you left them to wilt; you left me overflowing.
I wish I told you to leave before breaking me again,
I guess I forgot.

But mosaics are just pieces of broken glass,
and by breaking me you've only made it easier
for the next person to find me more disastrously beautiful.

(NJ2014) © All Rights Reserved.

You taught me that a poem doesn't have to be
a collection of dressy words,
or expressions of feelings,
or have to hurt.
You taught me that

feeling comfortable with a certain person,
sitting under the moonlight,
talking about simple things,
the sound of your laugh
and simply, you,

can be the greatest poem,
even if the paper is still blank.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

An exterior furnished with that of Roman design.
Painted white and elegant;
columns and precise design.

Floor One.
Polished and clean.
I can see my reflection through your porcelain overcoat.
You're smooth and delicate.

Floor Two
The staircase is well maintained,
there's cracks, but not many.
The drop from here is not too far.

Floor Three
The stairs are decaying,
the elevator shines back a grey image.
Your view is great,
but the sky is cloudy.

Floor Four
Abandoned and bruised.
Shattered glass.
Creaky floorboards,
and peeling walls.

Attic
Dingy and flooded with cobwebs,
spiders and dust.
But there's artifacts here,
there's treasure here.
There's greatness here.

(NR2014) ©All Rights Reserved.

More than once I've tried to push open a door that said pull,
I suppose it's not a coincidence that I have never pulled thoughts
from my head without at first trying to push them away.

Safety precautions say that most doors should open outwards
from an enclosed room, says that it's easier to escape if there were a fire
-there's a fire inside of me, but my door opens inwards
and I'm locked in the corner of the burning room I call my head.

There's a sign over a door in the building I work at,
it says 'exit' in a red light -which I found quite ironic,
if red means stop, and exit means leave, where do I go?

Most of life is spent in anticipation and haste,
anxiety and fear of mistake;
what changes have occurred that have made life a competition?
We were taught as children that 'slow and steady wins the race,'

so why am I speeding up at yellow streetlights,
and running towards red exit signs?

(NJ2014) © All Rights Reserved.

The thought of you was crocheted into my mind
by the needle of false hope and blinded romanticism.
I thought I could cover myself in your soft words,
and fill the empty spaces with my shivering limbs,
but there were holes in the pattern of the blanket,
and I was a fool to think I could ever keep myself warm
under open stitched thread.

I wrapped myself up tightly
in the way I wished your arms would of me,
but I got tangled in a mess, and I never got comfortable.
How can I find comfort in the arms of a stranger?
How can a warm night leave me shivering?
I sewed another blanket in an attempt to keep warm,
but two unfinished cloths can't shelter as one.

It took several nights of tossing and turning
to discover that you can't keep warm
under incomplete relation,
beneath unfinished stitching.

(NJ2014) © All Rights Reserved.

Maybe that's my fault, maybe that's what I'm doing wrong.
I change people into words and metaphors;
each song I listen to screams his name, or his name, or his name,
and the music grabs me by the hand and spins me into the past;
the way he rarely smiled, but did at that moment,
and the way he kissed my forehead, I felt safe for the first time,
or the way he always made me feel like I was living life,
not just wandering around aimlessly.

I can't strum a chord without thinking about how my heart sung.
When the base drops, I can feel the moment my heart dropped
when he told me he never cared about me, that it was a facade,
or when he would rather lose himself in a different world
than hold my hand through the night,
or the way he left without a word.

Why does every song remind me of those who have wronged me?
Of all emotions from excitement to sorrow, pleasure to pain?
Why do they make me wish for one more moment with them?

Even if the only moment I can relive
is that of which he/he/he made me cry,

I want that moment again.

(NJ2014) ©All Rights Reserved.

There's something about your smile that frightened me,
all of the sudden the butterflies I've long since released -came back,
but not in the same way, this time, they weren't fighting;
they seemed as if to be fluttering around comfortably.

Your laughter is subtle,
but it was loud enough to scare away most of the shaking in my bones,
loud enough to draw my attention to your face, your eyes;
for a moment we made eye-contact, but I couldn't hold it.

They say the eyes are the gateway to the soul,
I don't trust the gate-keeper,
and so I quickly lock my eyes to the ground.
What would you think if I told you that I, for a millisecond,
thought you were the greatest thing in the world?

I didn't want the night to end,
but the sun will surely rise.
And we are clouds just floating by time after time.
Maybe it's best, you can't lose what lingers,
but I'm thinking of lighting up the sky with you,
thinking of being the wake-up call for the early-birds with you.

What would you say if I told you
I wanted to do nothing, and everything, with you?

(NJ2014)  ©All Rights Reserved

You came to me with little baggage,
you placed your hand in mine
and your lips on my forehead;
soft, not heavy. Fragile.

The only baggage was that of your past,
and your eyes screamed with experience.
I could never find the ghosts that haunted you.
I spent months trying to read your story;
found that you were a novel of suspense and mystery.
You spoke very little but your breath smelled of alcohol,
and that's when I knew there was something unknown.
I tried to find what burdened you, tried to sink beneath your skin,
but like floorboards you creaked and were full of tight nails;
I tried, but too much force could break you apart,
I never wanted to hurt you.

I could never crack the case of you,
your windows were too fogged to see through,
and then I thought that maybe you'd left them like that purposely;
who am I to knock down your walls?
Who am I to peak into your corners?

I never did find what burdened you,
and I feared of becoming a part of whatever that was;
in some ways I hope you left with less baggage than you came with,
but sometimes I hope the scrape on the window reminds you
that someone once tried.

If you don't want me around,
please, lock your door.

(NJ2014) ©All Rights Reserved.

Have you ever wanted something so much,
you had no choice but to let it go?
The bird clings to the sky
and the sky provides the wind,
the flowers grow from the ground,
and the earth provides the soil;
I'm falling for you,
but your arms aren't outstretched.

I should straighten up before I scratch my knees
and bruise my heart.

(NJ2014) ©‎All Rights Reserved

Your arms are columns, structure,
with hands like carpeting that runs along the surface,
your breath lingers like smoke of the fireplace
after it was put out at the end of a holiday.
Your voice is rain hitting the window,
falling softly and condensing into nothing but fog,
fingers tracing quiet promises and desires in the form of pictures
that will only fade away with the hands of time.
Your eyes are an autumn scenery wall art,
your lips a single rose in a glass vase.

It's moving in day and the house is empty,
with nothing but a piano and your structure;
singing and spinning around in classical tune,
it feels like home, you feel like home.

My voice echos off the walls,
solo piano swimming through the halls,
my dancing feet patter on the hardwood floor;
beautiful, but when the hands of time strike night

I find,
this house is not yet a home.

(NJ2014) ©‎All Rights Reserved

I tell you that there are huge storms inside of me
and you always take out your umbrella like you're waiting for it to pass by.
The hurricanes are ripping through the feelings I have for you,
and the wind is making me deaf to your "sweet" words;
but still, under your ignorant shelter you sit.

I worry that you've come here only for vacation,
that the sunshine on the brochure that is me in public
has convinced you that you've found a great, temporary, place to lay.
But really, my waves will leave you drowning
and my mind will have you lost in a stranded place.
My hands will cause destruction,
and the earthquake I call my heart will shake your stable ground.

I worry that you lay on the beach of my calamity
but ignore my roaring waves.
I worry that you will soak up all of my sun,
and leave me shivering my my rain.

(NJ2014) ©All Rights Reserved