Sick of this
Sick of faking
Sick of wondering about the point
Sick of not knowing if it’s true
Or if they’re stringing me along
Sick of thinking bout the future
Sick of counting every day
Sick of wanting to die
Sick of being alive
every flippin day
Sick of good moods only lasting a minute
Sick of the high then the immediate low
Sick of ‘Are you bipolar’
Sick of explaining I’m not
Because I’m not
Sick of not talking to anyone
Sick of being judged
Sick of ‘what’s wrong with you’
Sick of not knowing
Just sick of everything left in this world
Expect the couple of people who are
Sick of life
Aswell

One red rose stays blushing in my garden
I caught a glimpse of it in the early dawn
On the carpet of green, as a lovely dame it does sway
Flashing hues of contrast on a dull monsoon day

A flower with petals of such delicate contours
Yet sheltered by sharp stinging thorns that pierce
Rain drops dripping off its soft ruddy face
As blood rushing from a wound’s open surface

Fairer far than anything, one can envision
Its petals, woven and spun by angels of heaven
Oh symbol of grace, you rock me in delight,
And in me a thousand poetic fancies ignite!

I’m certain that by now
The windows are all steamed.
There could be dust on my towel
But I sit here picking at my own seams.

The soap bottle is lying on the side
Watching with hatred from its huddle
As I stare at my hands and try to hide
My stomach with flannels and bubbles.

I squash the buds between my fingers
While hair clings to the skin of my back.
I scrub at the writing that still lingers
Faded to blue from black.

I remember only ink and tingling
And you smiling against a classroom blur
Our hands entwined, my concentration dwindling,
Who knows in what world we were?

I’m just scrubbing veins now the pen has gone.
I wonder why you even let me exist
In your world. Tell me, am I withered and worn?
If you kissed me- Ha would you ever kiss this?

I can still feel the ink prints etched into my skin.
Will they ever fade away?
No; the phantoms in the water always win
And I can’t help but listen to everything they say.

i.
every moment with you
feels like another memory
to keep me warm at night
when you leave again

ii.
every jacket i take
loses it's 'you' scent a little faster
or maybe you just stay away longer this time

leaving me with a jacket smelling like my empty room  

iii.
memories and jackets and "this number has a voicemail box that has not been set up yet"
you have spent more time in my dreams than in my arms
this isn't how i thought love would be