I slept in your shirt and
dreamt of kissing you
but when I woke, you weren't there.  
I felt your warm body
Next to me because
I wanted to be beside you so badly
Somehow I felt you there.

I don't think anyone
Understands what it's like
To be completely taken over
To the point of physically collapsing
From the shock of the unforgettable words that break your soul beyond the point of anyone fixing.

you give me
that kind of feeling
i want to repay,
by doing
a poem for you
every single day,
i want to
especially write it
along the sea bay,
because you haunt me
in a very good way,
and i will let you fall
with empty words
that i say.
(j.a.t.m)

I somehow forget how to write with a simple pen or pencil to express my feelings delight

I sometimes realize I'm not really a poetic rhythm to ring the ears of the people while being under hypno-tizum.

I see how people use their imaginations and creativity to create the fondest stories in history.

I can relate to the angry/hapiness/sadness that i read that sometimes makes my wrists bleed purposely.

Either way poem/poems are one of a kind  that people cannot duplicate unless we have similar minds.

                            sealed with a kiss
                                          Xoxoxo

everyone i've written about
has left me.
so you must understand
why i will not immortalize you
with my words,
why i won't turn you
into a poem.

maybe this way
you'll stay.

Stained.
Like the blood on my hands have dried to a crust.
My heart had thawed but now has freezer burn.
The strands of blonde that were bleached last year.
The words that I won't forget.
Stained.
Like the white dress that has now turned yellow.
The dried candle wax that won't come off the carpet.
Don't love me, or I will become hard.
Don't leave me
Or I will become,
Stained.

We are a liars, because
the truth of yesterday becomes a lie tomorrow,
whereas letters are fixed,
and we live by the letter of truth.
The love I feel for my friend, this year,
is different from the love I felt last year.
If it were not so, it would be a lie.
Yet we reiterate love! love! love!
as if it were a coin with a fixed value
instead of a flower that dies, and opens a different bud.