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Have you ever been afraid to write?
Almost like you don't want to feel what you would write about?
Yet at the same time you're craving it?

I want to write,

I want to write about the offset piece of sidewalk outside her house
     that I always managed to trip over no matter how many times I had
     before promising I would never trip again.
I want to write about how I would drive the long way to get to where I
     was going for months after we broke up just so I could pass the road
     leading to her house just to have a chance of seeing her, even if she
     never noticed me.
I want to write about how I'm afraid I'll never feel the static race down
     my spine when I kiss someone ever again because after she left no
     kiss has ever managed to spark anything inside of me.
I want to write about how I sat for hours on the ledge where we first
     kissed because I could let my tears fall down off the cliff like rain
     that I hoped would water the ground enough for a flower to grow so
     if she ever came back she would have something almost as beautiful
     as her to see there waiting.                                    
I want to write about how I now understand how Jesus could die for
     people who hated him because even though she hates me,
     I begged God to forgive her, because she knew not what she did to
     me.

But I don't write any of it,
Because I’m afraid to feel like that again,
Because It's pathetic,
Because I'm afraid she will see it,
Because it's not love,
It's poetry.

And no matter what her reply was,
it's still poetry.
And even though I don't love her anymore,
she’s still my stanza,
And I'm trying to find a new poem to write.
He stole all my words
The poems I wrote
on the back of my notebooks,
scratch papers,
yellow pads

Words meant to be hidden,
he found all of them.

A sly thief:
Stole my words and broke my heart---

The words I earned.
The words he lost.

But you.
You gave me my words back.
And left me tongue tied in the process.
A thank you note to someone who used to mean so much.
Because when the radio plays love songs
On rainy days
You will still be the one she remembers
Because when poetry is read
In midnight
You will still be the hero.

You are her hero---forever.
Still.
12/10/13
If love's art--- then I am the painter
and you, dear, my masterpiece.
Blood as His paint, the cross as His brush and our lives His canvass.
My facade unraveled that drunken night
When you picked me up and saw the sight
Your daughter dressed in white---
You carried me to the car
And swore off every drink in the bar
While I sat there covered in *****.


“Do you love me, daddy?” I asked you
Everything that night was hazy---
Except for the silence you gave me.
I am so tired of being tied to “pretty”
As if all I am is nothing but a mere face.
A delicate mannequin protected behind glass
A porcelain doll to be ogled at from afar…
Until you find a prettier one.
A thing stared at until you walk away—
My face vanishing from your sight.
Forever forgotten the face that caught your attention moments ago.

Always treated as if my only purpose is to shut up and smile
Pose there as they auction and sell me off.
Pretty.
Pretty.
Pretty.
Pretty is not all I will be.
People are so sad
       And I want to understand
              What causes this great depression
                   Because I'm getting an impression

That I'm missing out in life-----
                      By not being sad
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