How do you explain that your bones are the coal used as breeding ground for a fire? How do you explain that there's a fire raging inside of you, setting every inch of your body and thoughts ablaze? Like a wildfire destroys the forest, this pain is knocking me down and smoldering me.
But how can you say you're in ashes when your body is unbruised?

No collapsed limbs, no heaving lungs, no unconscious mind -only puffy eyes and a tired tongue?

How do you explain that the tightness one gets in their throat upon hearing unexpectedly terrible news is a common feeling of yours - a side effect of the blood that runs through all of your veins? That even though you know you can do something, the words 'you physically cannot' are flooding your brain like a drug and poisoning every choice you try to make?

How do you explain that every move you make feels like walking on a tightrope that seems to never end. How each step sends a shiver down your spine; trying not to fall, trying to finish the task, trying to stop the anxiety -but you can never reach the end because your destination keeps switching from left to right despite the progress you've made.

How do you explain that you're dying when everyone see's you as perfectly alive?

NJ2016

spring cleaning in the form of blasting your bands music
while i pick up the clothes that smell like him.

spring cleaning in the form of replaying the day I walked away
over and over in my head as if to erase all that happened afterwards.

spring cleaning in the form of taking all the poetry I wrote about you,
and scrambling them up to mean something entirely different.

spring cleaning in the form of endless shampooing,
to rid the touch of your hands from my hair.

spring cleaning in the form of disposing all memories made in winter.

(NJ2015) All Rights Reserved

i'm making wishes on flames,
that burn and fade away.
i'll cut a piece of cake,
and pretend like i believe,
and wait.

they say you can't rekindle a flame
once it has burned away;

but i want to think that you're the birthday candle
that keeps re-lighting; you know, those trick ones?

I use all my breath and blow out the flame,
i don't want to get burned,
but now the light's all gone.

I'm starring at the cake just hoping
you'll light up my world up again.

Maybe I should just enjoy the cake,
but I'd rather wait.

Please don't make me wait.

NJ2015 (All Rights Reserved)

winter has left and it took him with it,
along with my sanity and understanding.
and you would think spring would bloom flowers,
but i only see myself wilting and shaking.

winter may be gone, but the winds inside of me are still screaming;
more often than not i'm left clutching my heart in the middle of the night
crying because the rain of spring never really did make it's appearance,
and I'm lost.

There's something about the smell after the rain;
you know, the kind where all feels as if it's been washed away
and made new again? That's what I needed.

Droplets formed on the windows of the car,
as did they on my cheeks while his arms wrapped around me;
his head resting on mine like clouds during rain or shine.

Tonight, I was a thunderstorm.

He was always my rain;
sometimes he was a drought, sometimes he was a weekly storm;
but he was always my rain.

My sorrows were puddling into my hands,
my mind the heavy fog of a late March night,
and my heart a huge pothole in the middle of the road.

It's 12:45 and my clothes smell like him;
it's the smell after the rain;
didn't think I could drown in so many ways.

I'm stuck in the rain,
but i wish it was his cloud.

NJ2015

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

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)

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.

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.

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

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.

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)

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.

tears will fall from your eyes beyond your control,
you'll hate to tear away from his touch for the first time in a month,
his voice will sound like the song of a canary,
and his smell will bring you back home,

but when you don't have to clutch your heart
because you don't feel your lungs collapsing,
or your breath stopping short in your throat,
or your veins flood with anger and shake your body,
you're on the right road.

his eyes will be safe-havens you turn away from,
and you'll want to embrace and hug him
because you never know when it will be the last time,

but
when he's walking away,
and you don't feel your feet trying to follow,
or your hands trying to grasp and hold him back,

know, he's already lost you;
know, he doesn't have all of you anymore
and you're gonna be okay, kid.

NR(2015)

if fate is written in the stars
they have two weeks to conjure up a plan
that erases state lines and keeps us together.

(NJ2015) 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.

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.

teenage lust in the form of him helping you undress,
but not lifting a finger to help you re-clothe.

teenage lust in the form of his hands navigating the galaxy of your skin, but straying from the black hole that is your mind.

teenage lust in the form of learning pluto isn't a planet
even after believing it was for so long.

teenage lust in the form of her experiencing
that of an event horizon
while he's orbiting other planets.

teenage lust,
you don't touch my soul.

(NJ2015) All Rights Reserved.

Racing down Madison Avenue against traffic
was never how I expected to crash into him.

He draped his arms around the wreckage, holding it tightly;
everything was piled against the tree -broken pieces scattered;
eyes black as oil stained his white T-shirt,
gasping, crying, inaudible speech.

The gas ran empty and the windows fogged,
everything fell to the floor, fell apart,
broke down - and then it was fixed.

by the simple putting together of a mechanic?

I crashed into myself,
by the dictionary definition of violently colliding;
fell apart.

but, when I crashed into him,
everything fell together.

N.R

he took off his dress shirt,
tossed away his gold tie,
danced away the whole night
in a white t-shirt
and I couldn't help but smile
at that boy the whole time
all these other formal lookers,
but they're not what i like;

'cause there he is dancing
in a five star restaurant
in nothing but some black slacks
and a wrinkled white t-shirt,

and i know that it's crazy,
but he's the one that i want:
i'm breaking the rules,
and i want to get caught.

[NJ2015] All Rights Reserved

there are no surgeon general warnings
about boys with sunlight eyes and dark voices,
of boys who speak meaningless words and irrational sentences
in such a way that even the greatest philosopher
would secondguess himself.

with a voice that colours silence,
and a gaze like the moon lights the night sky,
his glare will turn your head into a meteorshower,
thoughts colliding, breaking, seperating.

it's his third cigarette, and smoke is clouding up the room,
he closes his eyes, exhales the nicotine carelessly,
leaning against the wall, so at peace,
and all you can do is happily drown,
your self-control more intoxicated than his lungs.

the blinds revealing whats left of the sunlight on white walls,
scattered light, faded patterns -faded thoughts
you love the sunset, but you can't take your eyes off of him.

cigarettes and cigars are labeled with warnings,
'may 'cause heart disease'
but they forget to label the boys that leave you breathless,
the boys that hold your heart in one hand, and a cigarette in another;
the boys the know the best way to set something on fire for pleasure.

(NJ2015) All Rights Reserved.

love is more than just a language between two people.
it's several phrases, actions, and words
foreign endeavors and behaviors,
thoughts,
all together as one.

as those speaking acts of love,
we expect those we speak to
to understand.

but we all speak different forms of love;
compatibility of such revelations are misunderstood.

love is an adventure
a search for whose language of love,
though different from one's own,
can be interpreted and understood;
and wished to be learned.

though to learn a love is easy,
to comprehend anothers love cannot be forced.

love is tragic
an algebraic expression with several substitutions
and a million different answers;
but only one is correct in the mind of the beholder.

love can be the worst or the greatest thing;
unrequited can ****,
but when it works out;
it can live forever.

N.R 2017

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.

what's wrong with wanting to be in love?
I want to fall in love -is that such a bad thing?
we've been told that one does not fall in love ever when they are looking for it; but who decides that? who says that I can't find love?

is love suddenly not going to be love anymore because I was looking for him? what if we were looking for each-other? love can not be forged -the act of love can be, but love itself, cannot.

why can't I search for love? why do I have to wait for him to find me, or pop up out of the blue? Why can't I look down the path and scream, 'Love, I am coming for you. You're what I want and I will search everywhere until I find you.' Why does love have to be some mysterious lurker? why can't I notice love as a gust of wind before he becomes the full blown tornado?

Whats wrong with looking at someone you admire and thinking, 'hey, I think maybe I could fall in love with you' and actually, truly, believing so? You can't forge a feeling -so why not look for the spark? If it's there it's there, if it's not, it won't be.

So ***** all who tell me to stop looking for love,
because when I find him I'll be able to say,
'thank god I finally found you,
I've been searching for you my whole life.'

NJ2016

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 remember the first time I saw you,
you were on the front left side of the gym
walking to the sign in table,
I knew you'd be important somehow.

I remember the first time we talked,
we were on the bleachers on the back right side of the gym,
you sat in front of me talking to your friend, my friend,
I knew I wanted you.

I remember when you first started sitting with us,
we sat in the painted-floor circle in the middle of the gym
It took some time before I worked up the nerve to say
"Oh hey, I have that free too! I'm usually in the cafeteria."

I remember the first time you spent a free with us,
front half of the cafeteria, middle row, back table
you taught me how to unlock a password locked phone.
I remember your colourful shirt with black sleeves, you wore it often,
I remember hoping you'd be there every free after that,
and you came a lot after that.
I think we were the reason for the vending machine shortage,
we probably bought all of the chocolate chip cookie ice-creams.

I remember the first time talking about you,
and I remember the first time being told "he's not a good idea."
I remember the first time being told "you like him, don't you?"
and I remember the first time you invited us to your house
we didn't go because I was scared

I remember the first time I got your number,
and I remember trying to contain my excitement.
I remember walking all the way home to get my long-board
because you said you would skate with me
you haven't seen your skateboard in years but you decided to leave that little detail out and pretend you were going to look for it

I remember the first time we hung out alone,
I remember the park, I remember the swings.
I remember returning there months later
and laying on the grass looking at the light blue sky.

I remember looking at the dark blue sky,
and the starry night on the high-school field just months later.
You held my hand for the first time that night.
I was locked out of my house that night.
You walked me home that night.

When I got home you walked off singing 'Rude'
and I remember thinking "I am so *******."

I remember the first time you kissed me,
it was on my forehead.
I remember the first time I kissed you,
and your shocked reaction.
I remember you falling asleep,
and the twitching of your jaw,
and they way you pulled me closer.
I remember laying on the hammock with you
watching the day turn to night.

I remember the first time I went to kiss you on the lips,
and I remember you taking out a cigarette
and crossing to the window.

"I'm not as stupid as you may think"

I remember you leaving,
I remember getting hurt,
I remember falling apart.

I remember your explanation,
and I remember kicking myself for understanding.
I remember you saying you're not ready.

I remember when you decided you were ready,
I remember the first time you kissed me on the lips,
(waiting for almost a year was about to **** me)
and I remember thinking for the first time in years,
'i might get hurt. but that's alright. that's alright.'

Two months short of a year ago I met you,
and I don't remember the feeling I got the first time I saw you,
because you can't remember what never disappeared.

you're important, somehow.
i knew i wanted you.

(NJ2015) (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.

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.

I know this may be too soon, but I want to get it off my chest. I know that I just got out of a relationship, and I have no intentions of jumping into another one, but I like you; at least what I have seen of you so far, and if you’d let me, I’d like to get to know you some more.

And I say that in the most innocent way. I want to hear more of the way you think, and see things some more from your perspective. I like being in your company; you bring me back to reality, but a bearable reality. I like the way that you don’t expect much from me and know that I make mistakes, yet still believe in me. The way you talk motivates me and I want to learn more; about what you know, the experiences that shaped you, who you are, what you like, not because I have anything to gain, but because I sincerely have an interest in knowing.

I don’t want to jump into a relationship, at least not now. I need to learn how to be comfortable with myself again and erase all the bits of me that I exhausted or changed in an effort to make someone like me. I don’t want to lose myself in that way again, and I want to be sure that all I do is because it’s me, and not simply to impress. Because who I was before was amazing, and I know that beneath all the scars and stitches, that person I was exists and is even stronger. I don’t want to be in a relationship until I know that I’ve made it back to who I am, and that I’m able to let that person have the best of me.

I know what I want now. I want a partner, and I say that because that’s exactly what I want. Not just a ‘relationship.’ I want someone who will grow and experience with me, someone who will adventure, someone who will confide in me just as much as I them, someone who I have just as much things in common with them as I don’t -the perfect balance of bonding over our similarities, and learning and experiencing based on our differences. My next relationship will be nothing short of experiencing the highs and lows with my best friend.

And I feel it in you. I’ve always had your shoulder to rest my head on when it got hard -even after all the mistakes and unintentional ways I’ve hurt you. I learn different theories and philosophies and ways of looking at life from you. Whether it’s skating in the rain, getting lost in a country club, watching a movie, playing instruments, or simply getting coffee; each experience has burned a permanent image in my mind. And I wish to never lose your presence in my life because you bring out the best of me, which is a lot to say considering we are nearly strangers.

I don’t want to jump into a relationship, I value you. I don’t want to pick a flower that is blooming so beautifully, I don’t want to have anything wilt in my hands. But I want to catch the petals, and I want to experience the seasons with you. And if by chance, after we grow, you wish to settle in this flower *** with me -I’ll welcome you with open arms.

NJ2016

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.

he has eyes of grey marble,
and skin white like porcelain.
his hair is a sandy blonde,
soft and messy like ocean waves.

his lips are pink jellyfish,
i tell myself to stay away,
but i continue to get closer,
i continue to admire,
i know i will be stung.

i'm swimming in his waves,
but i keep crashing on the shore
one day i will be washed away

i only hope that i will be admired like sea-glass
instead of the just a broken-up seashell
when he the waves decide not to pick me up from shore anymore.

(NJ2015) All Rights Reserved

i hate to make a metaphor out of everything,
but we're celestial bodies orbiting out of control.

each day the sun rises with it's own strength
to clear paths and make visible the roads
that she can't even walk on.

the moon rises every night off of the sun's glow,
and not once does he return the favor;
he takes just enough so that gleaming eyes can adore;
the sun is so bright he doesn't even look at her.

when i was younger i read somewhere that
if you're going to do something, give it your all,
or don't do it at all.
and i have religiously lived up to that reading
until i met you.

you attend school just enough so you won't fail - just making it.
you work just enough so you won't get fired -just making it.

and this relationship,
is just making it.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I'm not saying I don't think about you, because I do.
i check my phone every morning
to see if you were drunk enough to text me;
I'm just saying, I think more about what you might be thinking
than I do of who you are.

don't get me wrong, things have changed.
you say sweet things to me now,
without the help of a clumsy tongue
or an empty bottle... or ten,
but I still can't wrap my mind around the idea
that you enjoy the taste of my lips
as much as you enjoy the sound of another drink.

you hold me like a glass
but you've never devoured me;
it's like a preference of white over red wine;
I look clear enough for you to think I'm empty,
and I'm not bitter enough to make you feel my presence.

I just wish you would indulge in me like you do the alcohol;
why can't you see that I too hold stories worth hearing;
if I can't cloud your brain, or make you stumble,
slur your words, and make you crumble;

than maybe I'm not your glass of wine,
rather I'm the wine itself;
drink me up,
I'll be nothing but a memory in the morning.

(NJ2015) 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)

Eyes brighter than the sun that acts as my heat in this cold world,
the smiles on their faces,
their loving embraces,
locked in each-others arms;
I'm tangled in the limbs of roughed-skinned trees and faceless barks.

A slap in the face from the wind is my kiss on the cheek,
their shelter is the roof above their head,
mine the endless blue sky.

Blue is all I've ever known.
I feel blue, I see blue,
faces turn into oceans at the sight of me;
they turn cold, they get scared, they rush at me like strong waves.
I cannot swim, I am drowning beneath the body [of water]
I have admired and adored.

My fantasies and dreams shoot at me with guns and sharp objects;
the one who could've understood me
was protected by those who think they understand him;
I can no longer keep running into the ocean
just to be continuesly thrown back to shore.

He throws me out to sea,
but yells at me when he steps on the  sharp pieces of me.

I am only a shell;
I am fragile.

You're yelling at me for hurting you,
you're the one who hurt me.

(NJ2015) 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.

The shower is her therapist -spilling tears all over her body, the way her heart aches to, but her eyes lack to in capacity. She combs her dark hair while she hums an old My Chemical Romance song,

When you go, don't ever think I'll make you try to stay

Gusts of wind come in through the window to remind the foggy glass that it will soon dissipate -that there is a world beyond the dewy structure. She massages the shampoo in her hair with enough strength to try to cleanse away the dirt, and thoughts.

in the morning I'll be off to find another way

She steps out of the shower and wipes off the fog of the double mirror above the sink and stares for a moment and proceeds to grab her tooth brush. Simply brushing her teeth.

The hurt isn't enough anymore to think of it as a metaphor, or anything other than what it is -it's not erasing the taste of him out of her mouth, it's not cleansing away the remains of broken innocence she gave him. That's all over now -he doesn't own that part of her anymore.

a good for nothing, I don't know.

Her face she washes with "Let The Good Times Roll," a face-wash that supposedly smells like caramelized popcorn -she hates popcorn, but she loves the smell of the Lush product; of course, she refuses that it smells anywhere similar to the corn-popped snack.

She throws on a maroon lace bralette and matching skivvies, and slips into an oversized Hanes white t-shirt that she probably purchased at the supermarket as a pack of five, and basks in the feeling of purity and freedom. She looks into the old-fashioned mirror that sits upon her dresser and puts on her retail store bought diamond earrings and $7 Walmart tree necklace and tries to give herself a smile. She's always been one with nature but like an autumn leaf, she drifted wherever the wind, or rather, he would take her. But he's gone now, and the necklace reminds her that she was always rooted -she just expanded her branches a little too far.

I don't love you like I did yesterday.

She takes a seat at her laptop that she worked hard to earn every penny for, and decides she's going to write about this girl she knows, this girl she is falling in love with again. Because even if nobody else does, she see's the beauty in herself -and she deserves to be written down.

And thats the origin of this poem.
NJ2016 [All Rights Reserved]

I've learned to love myself for everything that I am -including, and especially, my weird little quirks.

I'm the girl who laughs a little too loud at newspaper comics, and has to take a picture everything that has ever made me happy; whether it be taking a photo of my coffee in my favorite cafe, or taking a photo of the typical average looking field that I happen to be laying in the grass of. My mouth tends to run one-hundred mph when I'm speaking about something I'm passionate about, and more often than not I will probably stutter my words, or stray off subject the minute I remember something slightly alike to the story.

I have a tendency to believe in 'gut feeling' a little too much when it comes to people and their abilities; I put a little too much faith, a little too much effort; and become a little too much overall for anyone I feel 'connected' to, but thats okay. I avoid company, but hate being alone; I'd rather be in groups of three, and more often than not, unless I've taken a great liking to you, one & one interaction makes me uncomfortable. I try to make everyone happy to a fault, and worry a little too much about how my choices influence the next event, and the next event, and the next event.... I romanticize the thought of some people, and don't give others the time of day they probably deserve -but that's okay. My greatest weakness, yet best quality is my ability to romanticize simple moments.

I view everything in my life through foggy glasses and romanticize -everything- and it's absolutely ridiculous; but the time you laughed a little too loud, or danced a little bit out of tune, to me is probably beautiful, and I've probably already written a sappy love poem about it.
I daydream a little more than I should, and I have my entire future planned out right down to the rocking chair on the porch of my house by the lake, yet I can't tell you what I plan to eat for dinner in two hours.

There's so much more to me than I'm willing to write, because to know me is a journey I wouldn't want to spoil. Call me arrogant, call me weird; but I've learned what it means to love myself.

I'm a ******* mess, but god, I wouldn't want to be anything else.

NJ2016

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

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.

we were driving through the night
your eyes fixated on the road,
and mine on my fumbling hands,

you were singing to the radio
your favourite song on blast,
I don't know what I said,
but it caused you to laugh.

I don't know where I'm going with this,
but by god, you've got a beautiful smile,
and I felt beautiful just looking at you,
why don't you smile more?

You've got sad eyes
and you're always looking away,
and when you held my hand
I didn't want it to break

but when you smiled,
everything was okay,
nothing else existed.

You should smile more,
I didn't fall in love today,
but I think I might someday.

(NJ 2015) (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.

he reminds me of thunderstorms,
the way his voice soothes me to sleep,
the way his hands run down my body
like dew drops on a car window.
his humid breath on my neck,
sending chills up my spine.

one minute it's down-pouring,
the next minute there's nothing but the scent of stale rain.
a love that's screaming one moment,
and silent the next.

when the lightning between our body seizes,
the thunder in my mind begins.
i end days drenched in the rain of us,
and i'm catching a cold.

i want a love like sunny days,
all i've ever know is love in the rain.

NJ2015 [all rights reserved]

who am I to judge
the way you run away;
you find the same escape,
just in a different way.

you drink until you're lost at sea,
a broken glass on the beach,
when someone tries to pick you up,
your rigged edges scare them off;
can't show others who you are
unless you're unaware of yourself.

she cuts herself open
just to spill it all out;
tries to bandage it up;
she's so scared of herself.

who am I to judge the way you escape?
we're all drowning in waters blocked off with caution tape;
'cause the ocean floor doesn't exist
until you try to place your feet down,
and don't feel the ground.

(NJ2015) All Rights Reserved.

I used to hate the smell of cigarettes,
until it became the smell of you.

Now I cover my mouth,
I cover my nose,
and bathe in your smoke.

Suffocating, but it's okay.
I'd rather suffocate in your arms
than have time very slowly take my breath away.

(NJ2015) All Rights Reserved

there's four kinds of love poems.

1. the one about the guy who you wish to experience. the guy who makes you wonder. the guy you're curious about. the man who has dreams not yet revealed. the guy you have made a picture of in your head. the one you want to know.

2. the guy who broke your heart. the boy you love. love him more than anything, but maybe youre just not in love anymore. the boy who never quite transitioned to a man. the 'wrong time.' the one you thought you would live your life with. the one who wasnt perfect, or even great, but you thought of him the world.

3. the comparison. who you thought you loved, but realized later on there is a love much stronger. the people who fall into this category grows bigger with experience and time.

4. the love of your life and if you're lucky, hopefully he's the same person as number one.

It takes a hand to light a candle, and a gust to blow it out;

I loved a boy who would argue that his hair is brown, but I have always believed it to be an ashy blonde, a boy who's eyes changed from green to golden depending on the light, and who had skin of porcelain that he never quite liked. In the mornings he would wake up, put on some music, and dance around his room with a cigarette in his hand, grabbing his jeans off the chair and his shirt from the drawer. He would run cold water through his hair, take a glance in the mirror, and then exit down the stairs. I would always take a seat while he had one foot out the door, because he had a tendency to always forget to grab his keys.

The hand that lights a candle could also hide the flame.

Years passed and his hair was not quite as long, but still very ashy. He still danced around to music, but to a different song; Bruce Springsteen couldn't match his mood quite like The Weeknd could. He'd grab his cigarette, run his fingers through his hair, and forget his keys, still, before reaching the door. The flame may have been hidden, but the heat left my fingertips raw

I loved this boy with my whole heart. I still do. I hope he never stops dancing in the mirror before he goes to work, and I hope he still watches Jeopardy at 7 'o clock. I hope he never stops rapping the words that fill his heart; and I hope the world never tears him apart.

I loved him once, and always will. But we're not in love anymore.

& the flame burned out**
NJ2016