i thought it’d be poetic
to leave you the same way i found you,
with a contentless text—
a simple entered space
(i knew you wouldn’t catch it)
although you seem to be someone
who thinks very deeply about all someones,
your thoughts about me are puddles
disguised as over-complimenting oceans

and i really do not know
what i am or what i’ve been to you,
or if i’ll be able to keep myself away
from you, or why you’d drive hours
to see me in the middle of the night
when you “plan on kissing at least one
girl in the next three months,”
(could care less if it’s me)

"what would i be waiting for," you asked.

i’m barefoot, chasing a train i know
is on tracks that lead away from where
i want and need to be (but i liked the way
it felt when your hand touched mine)

glad i never gave you any piece of my heart,
because you’re the type of boy who’d
rip it to shreds, hide your claws
behind your back, and tell me that
i should’ve seen it coming
(though you would’ve been right)

maybe you’re just bored,
and that’s why you decorate
your skin with ink and don’t care
about whose lips you’ve touched,
and i wish i could figure you out,
wish i could draw a perfect portrait
with my words (or even just
my thoughts) of who you are,
but i won’t pretend i know you

i hate you and your ***** tattoo
(but i don’t really hate you,
i hate the way i let you make me feel.)

She is emptiness.
She is disappointment
and cigarettes
hiding under breathe mints.
She is hollow
and resentment resounds,
reverberating,
and vibrating
her core.
She is anger
and grief.
She is mourning
and sorrow.
She is hopeless
nothing to look forward to,
not even the promise of tomorrow.
She is loneliness
and guilt
for letting perfect love
just sit there and wilt.
She is the morning after
a night of alcohol.
She is the memories
she desperately tries
to drown in another
cacophony of music
and sounds.
She is depression
that she tries to throw to the wind
as she throws another handful of pills
down her mouth.
She is hate
and it eats away
until there isn't much left
to say.
She is you.
She is me.
She is everyone
but no one.
She is.

Distant cries on cheery nights;
That ever-growing sense of creeping destruction
When all is well
When all is too pleasant.

It rises from the hearth on chilly days
Like fiery remembrances of past decays
As pain found its way
From comforting warmth
To a slowly sizzling burn,
And the heat of water turned to rot
On ceilings lost to decades of neglect.

It is fleeting eyes and unsteady hands
During summer weeks
Of seemingly nonchalant song and dance
Where the next step
The next breath
The next laugh
May be the last.

And no hand upon the skin
Can calm the quaking of the heart
Inside it’s cage of tectonic plates
As it sings loudly to drown out
The reverberations of fate.

It is the vicious fear.

And it makes every hour of open eyes
And every dream under the dark sky
Another deadly parade of
Who, what, when and where
As the living pretend
To be alive.

Be the tree
Which grows up
And down
Like branches-
Responsible for height
And
Roots-
Responsible for depth
Life has both
Ups and downs
The more you
Experience
The more you become
Mature