The best of us comes out when the rest of us is gone.

At least,
I hope that's the case as I just want to save face and get away when my days face me with the longest ways around.

The depression sets as I attempt to find my faded song's wasted namesake.
Looking for a better view of the days whereupon my incessant sighs are drawn.

Drawn like a depressive sketch,
With the pencil marks parked along the secrets to peace's faded spark.

My fallacy, you see,
I'd rather breathe within the seas than have to see these things the way they've gone,
Strung me along the heartstrings stretched so thin as to nigh be my patience with this broken masterpiece.

And so,

The best of us are broken when the rest of us are gone.

But, the best in us comes out,
When the rest of us is wrong.

My heart swells with the capacity to love every single person I can touch
It throbs with the smiles and laughs,
Aches with the giggles and whispers,
And it swoons with every compliment and hug.
I jump the gun every morning, sending my entire heart to all I can.
I keep to them, responding quickly.
I am a fix, expendable.
I know what it’s like to hurt! To need that smile, that hug, that giggle.
And I know how hard it is to find. So I became what I once needed,
A homing beacon. A sign that tonight, even when I wanna drown myself and end my life for good, these emotions are as temporary as a laugh.
I taught myself to love the masses, even in the face of mental discord between my mind and my depression.
I taught myself to hold a shaking, breaking body together till they mended
Even if I was hanging on by mere threads.
Because I know that I am expendable.
I do this because my heart is big.
So big it cannot hold my self-love inside but instead it can distribute it.
I depend on everyone to hold my love so I am not faced with the opportunity to love myself.
Nothing, not even my own breaking and quaking soul can stop me from building a person.
And at the end of the day, I think that helps me get by in my own catastrophic mess.

Before we begin, some of you may remember this poem. Back in early summer I submitted it for a contest and have recently received word that it will be published in a book!! The finished copy is much cleaner and simpler, but here it is again in its rawest and most original form! ♡
----------------

The softest things seem to
Slip
Past our eyes without ever a
Second Glance.

When met with a second option,
Nostalgia and Regret
BATTLE
It out, fist to the flames.

head turns to my loyal disciple, pen at ready

He tells me honest emotions,
Ragdoll plagues drenched in

Formaldehyde wet-suits.

My heart a heavy
Disco
When your loving voice cradles me.

No, not a crush.
Our towers hold relationship rules
HOSTAGE.
Prayers for another at the
Altar of our Chapel.

Castle grounds of our giggles,
Bewitched by bangles of cedar cares.
Oblong shapes, color-coded and precise
Beg to be
BLED
Into blocks of games and fun.

Postscript to entertainer

Nothing is harmful
when I'm with my Lizzy...
No glimpses of future, but an eye on the past.
But, oh but for now,
Let us bask is rosy-cheeked riots
Friend of mine.

We had spent two days in bed,
   talking,
             laughing,
                          touching.
You said something along the lines of,
"I wonder if we're even still alive?"

When we finally left your room
the sun came pouring in
through your kitchen window;
It drenched our skin
forming silhouettes on the flat surfaces.  

Our shadows stood side by side,
I smiled and said,
"you are only as real as I am, my dear."

I guess that nothing else really does matters.

I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love—put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.

Today, I made my way through the hallway,
taking the frames down,
wrapping them in old newspaper,
filling the holes they left with putty;
leaving the walls, white and bare.
Once again, erasing every trace of myself.

I walked from room to room, slowly and quietly
like a ghost without matter
trying to cling to things it can not hold.
I took breaks often, sat on the couch,
watched the grass sway through my living room window,
and wrote three awful poems.

I looked around at all my furniture,
realized how most was scratched and damaged
from being forced through so many doors…
I’m sure there’s a metaphor there,
but I’m not going to bother.