I fell into a world
Where glass slippers
And shiny chariots existed
I danced on floors of marble
And crystals shown in chandeliers.

I spent awhile living in this dream
But glass shatters
And chariots became fuel guzzling cars
My feet grew sore on marble floors
And the crystals grew dull with dust.

You're a beautiful mystery clad in gorgeous enigma.
You're poetry that looks good in a skirt.

There's an orchestra on your tongue, playing the sound of your voice like a melody I can't forget,
matching the tempo of the drums in my heart
and the broken strings of my violin compliments.

You are a notebook, a yearbook, a sketchbook, a burn book,
every facet of you written in swirling cursive,
rhymes and famous signatures snaking between cinnamon hair and cleverness.

You are a pen running out of ink,
bleeding dry in Barnes and  Noble Moleskin journals,
but that's okay because I have more ink,
and you can borrow whatever you want from me--
store it in the heart you stole if you're bored enough to hunt my words for the pieces.
You have the key already.

You're the first dream of the boy too scared of nightmares to sleep again.

You are the taste of honey and cigarettes on the lips of the first girl that boy ever kissed,
because she was a rebel and he needed a hero
who wore boots instead of Mary-Janes
and band t-shirts instead of blouses.

You are the rose he drew when he was bored,
an outline with potential,
mysterious, entrancing, incomplete,
not yet ablaze with the red of desire
because he was never good at finishing things.
You are a dictionary. Your picture isn't just under "beautiful."
It's under "dangerous" and "witty" and "myth"
because Medusa bowed at your feet next to James Bond and Edgar Allan Poe,
and you're too good to be true anyways.

You are a poem, a telltale heart beating inside a lesson in vengeance,
temporary only because nothing gold can stay.
You've walked past where the sidewalk ends (certainly the road less traveled by)
and come back far more darling than any buds of May.

(You are the paperback novel he read under the covers,
the flashlight only bright enough to show paragraphs,
and every new page unique in shape and form
while the text remains the same.

You are the raw words read aloud by the daring poet,
standing beneath midnight moon,
the power of the throne,
the breath of a whispered promise falling upon the ear,
the warmth of kisses on the cheek,
the passion of all hope there ever was in trust and truth.

You are the fire in lightning,
the sparkle in the snow and the glitter in the rain,
the fierceness of the wind and the gentle, soothing peace,
the blazing chill of winter and the roar of summer's heat.)

But you're still a mystery.
A beautiful,
beautiful
mystery.

I once met a girl
with a smile on her lips.
She traced hearts on my skin
with her finger tips
and talked about the world.

In her room she carved her into her flesh
and prayed to god to be the best
at something.

She talked about me
and all the boys.
She talked about loving me
but I was afraid to be another toy.

I didn't want to be one of the boys.
So I left.

I once met a girl
who carried burdens
the size of a mountain
and wanted to forget the world.

In her room she teared up
over lost things
and broken dreams.

She scoffed
and called me a coward
who was afraid to love.

And hell,
Maybe I was.

I once met a girl
who pretended not to care
when really
she cared too much.

In her room she spent sleepless nights
over another fight
but this time he wasn't afraid to love.

She talked about all the pretty things
and all the bad things.
She talked about death
and how I was her only friend.

So of course,
I'm glad I wasn't one of the boys.

i wasn't searching for you the first time i spoke with you
in the hushed library
i am unfathomably lucky
i feel what you feel even though you have no idea
and when you glance down at your hands
i understand the loneliness
when you lay your head down
i drown in disappointment

at the moment
i'm praying that somehow i have to move with you
that way i can keep you safe from
the dreadful voices in your head as you feebly attempt
to adjust to yet another school
i know you have trouble with this
and how difficult you find it

i carry you in my heart
you are the perfect baggage

sometimes
the world
turns too fast
and makes you dizzy
and deluded
but you like it
because insanity
is better than being
*sane