All these poems are nothing.
There's no feeling or emotions.
Merely fancy words strung together to form a pretty sentence.
Where is my heart
It ran away with my soul.
And there is nothing left to do but wait and grow old.
So if you take me there I think we'll be okay
But if we wait, just wait a little longer
I'll never go away.

I sleep alone but I’m not crying
My palms are sweaty but we’re still trying
My clothes are wet and your hair is drying
When we kiss I feel like flying
You begin to leave, I feel like dying
You whisper I “I love you”
I know you’re lying.

I have a poem written in my notebook,
but I think it can wait.
Because, at this moment,
I have something else to say.
****** Sick because of the Randy Mumble
Take me to the hopsital, unbury me from the Rubble.
I think this is sounding lame,
but I'm a cliché; it's my claim to fame.
Not fame, per sé, I don't like the lime light.
But behind the scenes, and of course the clubs at night.
This poem isn't very good.
It's more like a diary entry,
than a piece of poetry.
I think the one in my notebook is better.

To be stuck fixated on one line
In your head in your hands on your feet
To wear just a word on your shoulder
When you talk when you laugh when you breathe.

Forgive my sweat
Forget my tears
I’m forging the blood
And fulfilling your fears

I poured my heart into your pages and you ripped it all to shreds.
And when you left I was lonely and I cried and the snowman we made smiled at me through the window. And then we kissed for the last time and I gave you my soul for you to keep.
For you to remember.
And I tried to count the days but the calendar turned red.
And it's been so long and I'm angry and the snowman we made lost his hat. And he melted and I froze and when you came back it was spring and we kissed and you brought me your heart and you gave me my soul.
And I melted.
You poured you heart into my pages and the calendar turned red.

Blood on my hands
Regret stains my teeth
Your bones
My ghost
The sheets