Exaggerated tears, overreacted feelings
Only for a love that interned you in pains.
You’ll never die if someone will be apart,
For there’s always love after a broken heart.

You can’t blame if the oceans left the sea;
Truth may hurt but it will only set you free.
The remedy is only up there for your scars,
And there’s always hope after a broken heart.

There’s always a lesson for every mistake,
Find that one redolent reason to breathe.
You can’t bring back the fire with a spark,
But there’s always life after a broken heart.

a halo of expanding hopes, dreams, and life

a crimson teardrop, tribute to the fallen one's strife

encircles the head of an angel without wings

a splash of color to these dark streets it brings



porcelain skin, cold as the night's bitter kiss

spiderwebbed with cracks, seeping cool mist

this angel was once a most beautiful thing

bright cut emerald eyes, hair black like raven's wing



the angel in past had lived, loved, and laughed

how tragic this scene, that it could not last

for the angel dreamed flying, to touch the moon

but these dreams awoke jealousy, plotting, and doom



you see, in the city where this angel did live
i
t was mechanical, heartless, and did not forgive

run by the hateful human machine who could not fly

confined to the earth in a rage it would cry



"who is this angel to be different from us?!"

hate did consume it like mechanical rust

it sought a way to grind her into the gears of the machine

"since she is not like us, we'll **** her will to dream"



with that they commenced to wicked dark things

captured the angel and cut off her wings

broken and torn, they left the angel to the dust

content to proclaim "she is now just like us"



but the angel could never assume human form

unable to fly, she could not weather this storm

the moon in the night sky, silver and fair

taunted her mind, dreams turned to nightmare



confined to the ground, humanity rotted her mind

great beauty now gone, with decay left behind

lost to the madness, driven to the edge

the angel, a mere shadow, stepped to the ledge



porcelain skin, cold as the night's bitter kiss

spiderwebbed with cracks, seeping cool mist

the angel looked to the moon, once loved, in the sky

stepped forth, and though wingless, for a moment could fly



for though the hateful human machine

had taken her will to live, love, and dream

it could never break her call to be free

the angel found an escape from this cruel place to be

For a long time,
I had gotten used to being alone and not having to depend on anyone but myself.
I made myself believe I didn’t need anyone and that feelings weren't an issue.
That I could be completely fine on my own.
But then you came into my life.
I made the mistake of opening up.
And now you've turned everything around.
I'm back where I started,
only now, i feel like a fool for even thinking that things could change.
I guess there's nothing I can do but clean up the mess and move on.
It scares me, to not have control like that.
How easy it is to become open and vulnerable.
It scares the **** out of me...

Oh, how great would it be
To fall so deeply in love
With the sky,
The clouds
Go out of their way
And firm up,
Netting themselves over the
Heavens,
In the hopes
To shelter me
From hitting
The solid groud.

We were thirteen and perfect for each other. We had the same sense of humor and only survived those heinously awkward pre-teen parties by laughing at jokes that no one else understood. We used to play-fight like siblings and run after each other tossing synthetic threats back and forth. I was faster than him, though he wouldn’t say so, and would catch him often - but he always surrendered nicely with a sweet little kiss.
    At that time we were young, inexperienced and painfully shy, so our kisses were commonly swift and polite – never anything Nicholas Sparks would appreciate – but there was something about those contemporary-type kisses that stirred something inside my child’s consciousness. Our lips caused ripples in my belly that tempted me to believe that perhaps this was more than just a tweeny courtship.

A fair amount of months passed before her eventually kicked me off the wagon. Prep school was over and we were off to high school – him to a private boarding school and me to a public school the soccer moms “would rather not talk about.” I was devastated and have yet to open myself up to anyone like I did to him. You see, I had broken off such a large piece of my figurative heart that I didn’t have enough left to share with anyone else.

Now I’ve a high school’s worth of non-existent Valentines roses and I've yet to leave the faetal position.

I've been talking about it for so long that my pool of friends there to console me has shriveled up into an unhealthy puddle of nothing. Hell, I’ve drank up so much of that resource that I may have left a dent where it used to stand. Picture me sniffing around a dried up pile of nothing fruitlessly looking for someone to tell my sob-story to – it's not far off.

Now here’s the gold;
I suppose I had set my standards so high that I’ve not let anyone else so much as see the bar let alone challenge it. That or my first boyfriend was so utterly terrified by my company that he wrote an article about me in the Guy Code and I now walk around with a blinking sign on my forehead. Either way, I’m as lonely as anything and have reached the point where I think of fictional characters as more actual than many of my fellow humans.

Tumblr help me.

Poetry
stands us on the overlook of the forest
and makes us see the ladybug
in the shade
of an indistinguishable tree.  

Poetry
takes time for the janitor
no one has ever spoken to.  

Poetry
gives voice to the frightened child
and the bird who forgot how to sing.  

Poetry
smells like the garbage in the apartment
of a 5-day drunk
letting us wonder
whether it is his heart or his mind that is broken.  

Poetry
turns a pacifist into a powerhouse.  

Poetry
wraps words into presents
becoming gifts of love
and breaths of life
in our common humanity.  

Poetry
makes us sticky on the floor of a movie house
or bad caramel apple decisions,
and unfortunate one-night rendezvous.  

Poetry
puts portals at impenetrable walls.  

Poetry
brings salvation to the Atheist,
hell to the saint,
equality to both.  

Poetry
makes room for love
regardless how redundant
or naive.  

Poetry
bleeds on our behalf
that we might die a thousand deaths
and live to die again.  

Poetry
makes the forgotten glaring,
the trivial a celebrity,
and illuminates the streets as a marquee
for what had once been insignificant.  

Poetry is a spotlight.
Everything is a star.