Have I already told you?
that I always miss you
on a day to day basis

Have I already told you?
that I want to hold you
in this cold, lonely night

Have I already told you?
that you're all I see
in this myriad crowd

Have I already told you?
how you look so cute
when you wear that smile

Have I already told you?
that I'm slowly falling
out of love; it's driving me crazy

Have I already told you?
how lucky I am that I've found you
my one and only comfort zone

Have I already told you?
that I'm hurt with words you've said
I thought it was me all along.

But, I was wrong.
that's why I didn't tell you
what I feel about you.

Have I already told you?
how lucky that person is
to be loved by you...

this isn’t going to make sense
cause it’s not supposed to
and if I’m being honest
this isn’t for you
it’s not even for me

I’m stuck
I’m trapped
I’m lost
I’m every other word that describes people who feel at a dead end

I’m typing on a ****** phone
That’s connected to a ****** connection
That could possibly be a metaphor for my life

I’m writing
Because I don’t know what else to do

I’m writing
Cause that’s what they told me to do

But they also told me that what I think isn’t always true
That I’m special and I just don’t see it

But that’s the thing
I don’t see it

And if I don’t see it then why should it matter if anyone else does

And if I’m thinking something why should it matter if it’s true

What matters is that it’s in my head
What matters is that it’s always there

But here I am
Stuck in the same place
Back to square one
No progress made
The same questions, whether true or not

Will I amount to anything?
Do I really help?
Am I really worthwhile?
Do you actually care?

I see these people
When I’m online
They smile and post
They edit and pose

I can’t help but wonder

Do you really smile, or do you just do it to look happy like me?
Do you really feel happy, or are you trying to lie like me?
Do you understand what I feel?

Or is it just me?

I’m not trying to be selfish
I don’t want a lot
I just want to be happy
And I want others to be happy with me
But neither is happening

So instead there’s a poem
That doesn’t even ryhme
That makes no sense
  I’ll try harder

A blink of words
That can't be said
Or even be written
She is poem of thousand words


She is fierce and gentle
All at once
She's a song
An unending song


She is a sparkle
She is a shine
She is the only thing
That i want to call mine

She is my everyday
And an everynight
She is every morning
And an every twilight


She is all i know
She is all i see
She is a sweet melody
She is an  unmatching rhythm

I always feel sentimental when it rains,
So, on sad days like this I leave the house without an umbrella.

With my headphones in,
listening to our favourite songs,
I walk past your old house.
Or the cheap restaurant we always went to.
Just so I can let my heart feel close to you again.
I must be so pathetic.

but when the rain stops
You will exist only as another memory.
So, I embrace the droplets on my skin,
Even if I do catch a cold.

On sad days like this I cannot help but wonder
if it’s raining where you are,
if you think of me.

So, until the next time it rains, we walk our own paths.

A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
lock yourself in a room,
scream until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your veins and bleed
until you know that your bones
are pure words and sorrow.
Act as if you slit your own throat
and all you can bleed
are your own regrets
and all of the darkness
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
tell her you're leaving
and you won't be back for awhile
Because being a writer is traveling
through all seven layers of Hell
and denying anything is wrong.
Forget loving yourself
when all you have is a pen and paper
fused to your wrist
and Jesus is tapping at your skull
saying turn back now.
Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning
It's just your soul
clawing at the front door trying to get in.
Learn how to be alone.
Learn how to lose everything you have
in order to feel release,
learn how to only feel deceased
from now on.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
don't

I wonder what secret
The trees whisper to the breeze?
Do the birds hear that secret
And announce it in their song?

Does the wind hold it
And drop it in the seas?
Does the sea speak it out
And share it with the stars?

Do the heavens then resound
With the secret of the trees?

And the clouds,
Oh yes! Those clouds
Blue, black and grey
Is that why come rushing?

Across the seas to caress
With gentle rain the trees
And whisper,
"Heaven knows your heart,
There are no secrets from God."

The trees smile and sway
Fulfilled and complete in love.

i wonder, at what age
you became out of my reach;
i wonder, if i even
tried reaching for you

i know that history leaves its mark on everyone
(but not many have been hurt by the tracks
left behind in the dirt
like you have)

you can sit there for days, weeks, months
while we contemplate your fate,
tossing the choices in our hands
like dice

you hear the word expendable
mumbled in countless conversations
and wonder, at what age
you became in our reach

you think of the family you left behind
and hope they will find their way to tennessee
to a better life that is  
quiet. peaceful.

will they miss your selflessness;
your keen, incisive way with words;
the bumps and hills of your rough skin;
the smell of your perfume?

i miss your evergreen smile;
your poetry;
your skin against mine;
the wonder in your eyes