"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

i used to write so many things related to you. your whole name, your favorite song, the things you always say, the place where i first saw you.

i write them in different places-- on paper, on the back side of my notes, on the wall, on my wrist.

my hand moves involuntarily and i end up writing everything repeatedly. i write even in between classes. it's even frequent when i get home.

they are always written in the same manner the first time i wrote your name. with care, as if your name was the most sacred thing i'd ever encountered.

but now, i don't even do it anymore.

i stopped the rhyming about you. i forgot your middle name. the song that plays in the car seems so familiar, yet it isn't.

everytime i walk down the corridor where we always used to meet,

your voice doesn't seem to stand out anymore.

my papers are neat now. the last pages of my notes are empty. i didn't receive suspension from vandalizing the school's walls this year. my wrist is covered by my watch. i listen to my professors now. i sleep comfortably.

i lost my pen.

then one day, i encounter your name again.

this time, i write it without feeling anything.

i guess your name isn't as sacred now as it was in the past.

i guess your name would only be a foreign word i knew i encountered but i don't remember.

yeah. i forgave and now, i forgot.

i wrote a lot of great poetry when i was in love
i wrote even better poetry when i was in pain
i wrote the best poetry when i realized that the two emotions were actually the same.

She doesn’t always look the same
Sometimes she’s a silver sphere
Fooling you that she is bright
But she’s just a mistress of the night

Sometimes only half of her you can see
Following you wherever you’ll be
She hides while dancing in the sky
Half, still a full beauty up high

In time, she becomes thin, crescent
Like a smile, a blissful moment
She looks delicate, discriminating
Only a part of her, still breathtaking

And only those prison of the night
Will witness the euphoric stint
Of showing pieces of her then
The beauty of becoming whole again

you are paper,
let yourself be crumpled,
and then tell me stories
about your creases, your scars;
memories living in jars

tell me how it hurt
to be molded impetuously
because you still feel pain
when your wrinkles look like veins,
fragile streaks of vulnerability
flowing within you,
all over you,
and i will tell you
that i could not care less
if you are a mess of crooked roads;
if you are no longer like the others
devoid of folds
because these folds define you,
and the others do not crumple
in the same way as you do

you are paper,
skinned from nature
let yourself be written,
and then tell me stories
about yourself, your tales
without ever having to use a pen

But the words still come
Old and rusted
New and glinting
Weapons in an endless battle with myself
When will I run out of words to write