You didn't deserve those harsh words
I threw at you the other night,
And I don’t deserve your forgiveness.

We hurled spiteful, bitter spikes at each other.
Mine bounced off of you,
Yours sunk deep into my chest, and stayed for a while.

Shouting and screaming,
Not knowing quite why.
And it was all my fault that things went awry.

I doubted your motives,
I didn't want to be vulnerable in front of you.
So instead, I turned against you and fought, unnecessarily.

I left, to contemplate what had happened.
I came back, to make amends, and take back those spikes of mine,
And you collected yours as well, and promised to throw them away.

And so we sat there, I in your embrace,
Taking advantage of this intimacy while I could,
Because this isn't going to last.

I still doubt your motives, your words, this whole relationship,
But the shame, guilt, secrecy and sneaking around,
Do not nearly outweigh the bliss I feel when I am with you.

Not even a little bit.

i wish we could go to a park at night
and sit back to back
on a blanket beneath the trees
and talk until the stars tell us to go home
because when i look at you straight on
my knees grow weak and my voice shakes
and maybe i'm not exactly sure what to say
when i'm distracted by
all the what ifs in your eyes
and maybe my mind dizzies with thought
like the possibility that i could be
a high tidal wave
that washes away the foundations
of a barely built sandcastle
and maybe i just wish i could tell you
everything on my mind at 2am
and maybe i'm just really hoping
you feel the same way

currently i am not

     sad

        depressed

               lonely
  
alone

     self-loathing

             insecure
  
heartbroken

     nor breaking hearts


and that makes me feel quite
    
out of
             
               place
because i am surrounded by
  scars

     and tear-streaked (beautiful) faces

  bruised knees drawn up to chests

     dark empty rooms
  broken mirrors

     and trashcans filled

  with crumpled lists of mistakes
and if i could, 
i would take all the

  scars

    tears

     and lonely nights

from the hearts that are broken
                  
                      or breaking
and i wish i could
 cloak The Light i’ve found

    (or did It find me?)

      around cold shoulders

 and wash all the tired feet

   that’ve been blindly stumbling

      in the dark

Have you ever asked yourself what your mind sounds like?
The cathedral of the orchestra?
When I first began,
I remember the end,
But in these forgotten hallways of our minds,
I embrace the trembling face of what was,
I'm talking about our future,
And your yesterday..
I'm talking about the shiplights on the horizon of those four-letter sounds,
Screaming, "what will be?"
But staring us in the face,
Day by day is this pounding answer of we.we.we.
When the drums rattling the shaking hands of the spirit-bound minister are trumpeting into the sky can we truly tell what tomorrow ever was meant to ask.
Excuse me mister and excuse me sister,
I stand here on a precipice of inspiration,
A fountainhead of thought.
In the morrow,
Less lives lived in sorrow,
More lives lived in the lights of days borrowed.
I gathered my shriveling hands under the meat of what was,
Only ever begging for the daybreak to come sooner,
I peer over the melting stretches of unbroken earth,
Screaming for a new day, I say, "who? Am I."
Bless me with your rotten future and plague me with your desperate heart for in the sunrise,
There are no questions.
Only ceaseless observation.
Bring me yesterday's whispers and whimper into the future with a dying heart,
The day is come.
And yes.. Sometimes I do ask myself,
Why was I born into this?
This dying fate of don't ask why.
Such naked sight and active fire,
Drumming out rhythms of my central chord,
Tapping and mapping,
The things keeping the man up in the darkness,
Is only the very echoes of his own mind,
Do you hear anyone else in that chamber?
This beat is dropped for your sound.
The rippling dribble of speech which I pull from the depths of canyon beaches forgotten,
I only ask to bow to the doors,
The hollowed-out floors,
Years passed of sleepless dreaming,
So in the morning light that I may squint out a new sight,
A new sound,
A new.. Touch.
For all we ever were,
And yes, all we ever will be,
Is everything.

I kissed you under the hot sun
              (I was surprised you let me)
your lips felt like ice
they were so cold and numb
I wanted to bring you back to life
             (back from the frozen desolate world you resided in)
but I couldn't
and no matter how hard I tried
to bring back the lights in your eyes
and the feeling in your lips
the touch of your light fingertips
and the beat of your cold heart

there was an arctic storm
deep in the midsts of your
eyes
lungs
veins
fingertips
lips
mind
heart
                                  you were so long gone
                                  nothing could save you
                                  from the heartbroken mess
                                  you had now become

If I could still write poetry-

I'd write about how you betrayed me.
I'd make it a lyrical nursery
That gently cradled all my insecurities.

They'd bounce around from wave to wave,

Like an ominous symphony.
Synomous to love,
yet fueled by defeat.

If I could still write poetry.

I'd write about being second best,
I'd write about loosing you, and
Above all else- loosing rest.

If I could somehow still write-

Maybe this feeling would flee.
Perhaps then I could show you.
Perhaps then you could see.

I can't tell if everyone else around me is normal
Or if I'm stuck in my own mind
Everyone makes a big deal about grades,
                                                 The things people say,
                                                 If you're in an advanced class.
But nobody takes the time to notice the small movements of people
        What makes them happy,
        How their eyes look when they laugh.
People only care about what you can do and what you can be
Everyone else is a brick. A grey, dull brick. Manufactured to think that if you don't do good in school, your life will be miserable.
Your life may only be miserable when you work too hard and don't find time to experience the great things
        Late night runs to a local diner,
        The comfort of a good hug,
        Getting lost in books,
        Or getting caught in rain.
I'm not sure if everything is beautiful or if it's just the way I see it. Either way, I am in love with life.

Like.
Is when your heart races.
Like a comet across the night sky.
It mirrors the fire of your passion,
And the ice of lonely fear.

Lust.
Is when your thoughts,
Like ***** smoke wind through lungs,
Mirroring your desire to devour.

Adore.
Is when little touches stop you in a thought.
Fingers intertwined,
Mirror the fingers of feelings,
Wrapping slowly around a heart that is scared.

Love.
Is when the blank slate of future,
Like a canvas stretched taut,
Mirrors the ache of your stolen heart.