Don't suicide.
Don't die.
Death is way overrated.
You don't rest peacefully
Rolling in the deep,
Or sit on clouds
Admiring the view
Below.
You're dead.
It's not a compromise
From our daily woes;
It's not respite
From our daily blows.
It's death.
And if you think
For one eternal second
You'll hover, ghost-like,
At your memorial,
And hear stories
About how great you are,
Were,
Or see your enemies cry,
Forget it.
You didn't get even
With anybody.
I suspect, if it's possible,
You wouldn't be interested
In us anymore,
Anyway.
You got dead.
Forever and ever.

You've never stopped loving me.
not even when i broke Your heart,
not even when i broke my promises,
not even when i left your side,
not even when i said i didn't need You anymore,
not even when i turned my back on You,
not even when i tried to fill the void in my heart with everything but You,
not even when i stopped loving You,
not even then did You stop loving me.

in my pocket i keep
words from the sun
with light to shine
through the cracks of
your heart

in my pocket i keep
wildflowers and daisies
lovely and bright for
you to place on
your hair

in my pocket i keep
mints and lollipops
and chocolates and
caramels to sweeten
your day

in my pocket i keep
bad jokes and funny
stories from years
past to bring out
your smile

in my pocket i keep
pennies for you to
wish on a well so
that you never forget
your dreams.

There are poets
On this site,
S/He's under rated,
Under critical lights.
Struggling with words,
Not being heard,
Presenting feelings
In their write.
Wanting to know
If they got it right.

You pull on my lip like an aircraft emergency oxygen system.
Our engines catch fire
as our tongues flutter like the wing's peeling metal,
and as our eyes peek at one another
between each plane crash of lips.

We've lost cabin pressure
as we can no longer control our bodies.
We gasp for each other's breath
as our shimmering structures
roll around on the sky of my bed.

We kiss like we've only got seconds left,
when in reality,
these moments will never die
even if we do.

You hate my poems
You say they take me from you
that they're pointless
a waste of time
maybe you're right.
You read them,
just the words as they fall,
and say you get nothing
just syllables.
I have lost count
of the sighs and eyerolls,
the you have no talents,
they sit in a memory box
along with the times you've asked me to stop.
Stop.
Just like that.
Stop pouring myself onto paper,
Stop looking for beauty in darkness,
Stop healing.
You prefer me broken, fragile, dependant,
the girl you took from nowhere to god knows where
a once pretty, broken thing
to hang silently from your arm
while you talk proudly of the soul that you saved.
You fear that my writing will end us.
I fear that my stopping will end me.

Spirit.
What is it?
It's too ethereal
For me.
If you see ghosts,
Or angelic hosts,
That's your reality.

Soul.
Where is it?
A shoulder to cry on!
A love to rely on!
Does it enliven
The breath in me.

Heart.
I've got it.
Too painfully.
It's ephemeral,
I can feel it,
Sometimes
I can heal it.
It's inside and outside
Of me.

You are a goddess
                                             bearing aphorisms,
                     winged words
                descended
                                       from angels
breath
              birthed golden gilded,
                                                                      individual
                Springs ephemeral flowing
                         down verb filled
                              streams of  
                              adjectives,

                       adjuncts to
                 towering majestic
pronouns                             most
                              naked

                in their originality,

                uttered
                      virginal,unstained

          no matter their verse,
            
  immortal,
                             feeling unrestrained.