I have all these secrets that shouldn't be shared.
Secrets shared are then turned into thoughts, regrets, even wishes.
No matter how fast my head spins, how hard my headache pounds.
I can't share what's needed to be said.
To anyone, not anyone.
I mustn't, I can't.
Secrets need to be kept hidden and shall be remained until reviled.

Kiss me hard under the starlight
Never let go I'm begging you
Hold me tight, this is just right
Your touch on my skin I'm alright.

Love me more than I can myself, cause I'll never really know just how.

Oh baby you've got me more than the sun,
But next thing I know you'll be pointing a gun.
Hands in the air don't shoot.
You ******* don't be a brut.




Bang.

Does it make us
Shallow
To read Divergent, Hunger Games
Or The Mortal Instruments?

Does it make us
Shallow
To listen to the latest pop hits,
Whatever's on the radio?

Does it make us
Shallow
To drink Starbucks or Koi,
And post pictures of it?

Does it make us
Shallow
To wear dresses, heels
And girly accessories?

Because I don't think it being shallow means liking popular things.

I want someone
Who can read my eyes
And communicate with them
So that we can share jokes
From across the room
Or alert each other
During emergencies.

I want someone
Who can differentiate my smiles.
Real ones, fake ones
So that even when everyone else
Is fooled,
You won't be.

I need someone
Who can understand
That I'm a complicated,
Contradictory person.
That I may blow hot and cold
But in the end
I'll still love you.

An exorcism, lost inside a dream.
Troubled seas and brainwaves turning green.
Lost without a course to chart with time,
on a mission for a life to bind.
Mapping different regions of the heart,
is hard when we got lost right at the start.
Its harder when the stars don't wanna shine.
What was it?, that we were trying to find.
Yet still we try to stir this old ship home,
for reasons that may always be unknown.
Reason set in mystery and stones.
Deep within the two souls that we own.
Deeper now that we're so far from home.

If this poem had a life before I wrote it,
this poem was a penguin.
This poem waddled,
not just because it was a penguin,
also because this poem was fat.
This poem was a fat penguin.
And not just the black and white kind;
this poem was an electric blue fat penguin
who never really understood it was different
until its parents let it out to play with the other little penguins
and they started teasing it and calling it blue bird.
Until that moment,
this poem had no idea that it was a bird.
All this poem knew was that its heartbeat was like a simile
and it had metaphors for feet
and they did not dance.
This poem embraced its electric blue nature
and never saw itself as the underdog
because it was a penguin who lived in Antarctica
and it had no concept of what a dog was
or what it might be under.
Penguins just don’t think like that.
This poem smacked a seal with a couplet underwater.
None of the other penguins believed it,
but it did.
This poem waddled with a lazy swag
and leaned a little to the right
so sometimes it walked in circles.
This poem had 360 degrees of perspective
and -50 degree wind chills.
This poem had more than 50 words for snow
and no words for poetry.
It just lived
and didn't even listen to what other people wrote about it
because it's windy in Antarctica
and you can't really hear much.