Love is too amazing
      For anyone
  To be sorta loved

        If you’re
Going to reach for
The heart , I would
Hope  that you use
       Both hands
               For
The heart is never a thing
      To be taken lightly

          Don’t try
Grabbing it with one hand
           While
       Holding on
 To someone else’s
          Heart

Never to embrace
          The new
 While holding on To
          The old

       Remember
                      
   Love isn’t love
           Until
   It moves beyond
           Words
  Action is everything
  
  If you truly want
           To be
  In someone’s
          Life
You will create the best
       Possible
Way to get  there

            For
 We all  deserve a
Consistent kind
            Of
          Love

Are you happy?
Your second-hand smile wears thin like old jeans,
and once-glinting eyes drop to the floor to stare dully at my cigarette ****.
My trainers are filthy and yours are clean, protecting soft feet from the cold that we both feel inside us.
It's the start of November but it's been winter for a while.

How long have you been silent? How long will you be silent?

How do you buy new jeans when all your currency has been spent?

Maybe I could be your personal shopper... I'm really not qualified; I was fired from my last position but I think I'd enjoy working here!

I'm sorry this doesn't make sense.
Some of it is missing and some of it almost definitely isn't me.
That's the trouble with painting your face. You do it every day and you forget how you used to look under all those layers, each mask set upon the last.
But I suppose the Mona Lisa took a few attempts, and so can we.

So alone in a room, with my back against a mirror, I put pencil to paper and start to scratch my itch.

Somewhere along the way
this person will lock itself
inside the bathroom
another will lay on the bed
and shiver from the damp pillow
another will sit in the darkness
of the car just by themselves
another will slip on sneakers and
simply open the door and leave
another will peer down from
the roof of a high building
another will have earbuds in
with music cranked high
all of them will be
enveloped in wells of
tears blood and pain
for they were the ones
society couldn't handle
or accept or forgive
for having been born
the way they were or
having been forever altered by
their surroundings and lives
if society is seeking someone
to blame then just
go peer at the mirror
and peel the grotesque
repulsive mask off the face
and society ends up losing
one part of the never ending
cause of pain.

i love me like this,
with the night in my eyes
and the cinnamon moon
that sits atop my nose.
i love me like this,
with my wild and untamable curls,
who only listen to the wind.
i love me like this,
with my skin that matches
the café con leche i love to drink.
i love me like this,
with my poetry and without her;
with the words i feel
and the words i’ve kept to myself.
i love me like this,
light and free;
because this is who i am,
this is who i was made to be.