The love that makes me cry
The kind that brings hot tears to my eyes
Is the one saying "you, not I"

Gentle, the softest consuming
it's the sort that tickles your fingers
doesn't leave, but lingers
unconsciously keeps you assuming

assuming their finite cares part by part
-you didn't even know it at the start
puling them deeper into your heart

And then one day the **** with crow
and when their love lets go your hand
it is then that you will understand
the betrayal of the love that takes

"Shhhhh"
you tell me, your hand in my face,
your lips a sloppy mess.
"Will you ever say anything that makes sense?"
I wonder.
"Probably not."
Gesturing your hand out of my face,
it falls limp to your side.
But you are quick to raise BOTH of your hands this time.
Waving them.
Sloppily.
Shaking them.
I glance your unstable form over.
-wide eyes
-raised and slanted brows like pleading
-mouth, agape.
Releasing a pent up sigh,
I wipe your mouth off and close it,
smooth the hair away from your face,
bring your wrists back down to your sides.
What do I get?
A blank, expectant stare.
I kiss your cheek with my thumb and walk away.
Turning the light off before shutting you behind.

I'd totes write to you
the sweetest poem to grace your ears
but my diction and lack of rhythm
leave something to be desired

I do admire the words,
their cadence and flow
and wish I could piece them together
to tell you how much I love you

but I have this rule of thumb see,
press the enter key and move on.
it will sound kind of poetic.
Even though I just kind of drone
on and on and on.

These bags under my eyes don't go away.
Even if I don't feel so bad.
When I smile,
sometimes they are worse then.

But I smile.
Regardless of those bags.

Sister I don't know you particularly
but I see you
hear you.

I sure understand that feeling of always ugly
because of what's on your plate
on your mind
under your conscious.

But as they say
"beauty is in the eye of the beholder."

Spattered with obscenities of this earth,
the mud can't block your light.
Honest. Sincere.

Wipe the mud from your sharpest eyes
and see that your smile owns those bags.

Ugly is just a word and bags can only ever be bags.

You did inquire why all of my poetry is depressing, or morbid... or sarcastic.

I wish I was ~positively~ poetic, but my positive feelings channeled through prose!
I have some neat journal pages... inspiring or thoughtful
-I guess...

But when I look back at the days of pages I wrote in my paranoia or depression.. spite... it's just really horrible! It don't like remembering how sick I  got myself over things. And I've always admired poetry.. and I remember the first poems I read from you were more morbid and dark. So I followed suit.... and I like looking back at these poems, more artfully worded and less angst ridden... much more than those journal pages.

I have been inspired to write more light hearted poems that are NOT sarcastic, but those are all drafts and I just don't know how to do about things and they just sit there and never get finished. No, those poems about friends leaving me behind, school being really fricken freezing, and mom sounded like a raspy parrot are the only ones that seem to get finished.

I'll work on putting something light together for you... rather or not it gets finished it up in the air though haha. I love you a lot!

xoxo

I'm not good at being your friend.

I was so sure that I loved you in the most complete way possible, I wouldn't have even begrudged you if you liked someone else. It wasn't in my interest to covet you.

But then things happed...
...as they do.

And I tried my best feel they way I did at first.

But I cant.

Because things happened.

I try to treat you like I used to but I begrudge you
half the time I think of you I think of ways to break up with you

woops.