I find I have so much to say and never the composure to say it.
You should know what you do hurts.
But I'll let you use me because it creates the illusion that I'm wanted.

I'll write a poem for you every day we meet,
silently hoping one day to knock you off your feet.
I could sit and make lame rhymes for weeks,
only if this intrigued you would I feel complete.

It's so hard to tell if you'll feel this or not,
no doubt if it reaches your hands my face will be hot.
Rhyming words to steal a spot next to you,
don't really know if it will work or not.

Just know I'll try my hardest to earn that spot. One day ill have the courage to ask if you like me? or not?

For now, let's have fun.
You're a bit adventurous, let's go for a run
barefoot through creeks and rivers,
we'll accomplish things that will leave shivers.

How can there be a happy ending if you're never on the same page.

no one ever tells you that:

• her lips are not his lips are not her lips

drunken minds still want sober kisses

• it's not disrespectful to be cuddled while sobbing on the vacant graves in the churchyard with just birth dates inscribed into the headstones if you need to

and if you feel as though you should dance on said graves, ******* dance, even if it's not empty, because who says ghosts don't like to waltz? that man was born in 1917 and he died in the mid thirties and he spent his glory days in a hospital bed rather than a ballroom so I'll spend mine twirling a girl in my arms in his honor and I'll tilt my head back and laugh the way he might have and I'm sure he'll get a kick out of that one

• timing is everything but it's also nothing in the grand scheme of chronologistics

sometimes you have to channel your inner new age Shakespeare and just make up your own words to express yourself in writing when you feel as though there are no adequate words in the dictionary to describe what's in your head

(sometimes the best way to get out of your head is to get lost in it and get really drunk on your own thoughts and drive straight first into a ditch on Summerfield Road and when you have the urge to look in a stranger's phone book to call someone for help, don't.)

• sometimes you need to listen to that boy repeat himself over the phone  for 9 minutes about how much he cares about your best friend and how he'd do anything for her and how he'd quit selling drugs and driving drunk because she makes him want to be a better person to realize what you have and what you want

sometimes the only songs that relate to your current situation and make your heart want to explode are the ones you used to listen to when you were 9 because that boy let it play on your oldest sister's voicemail and you hadn't yet experienced what it was like to love someone who made you feel like there were "twice as many stars in the sky" and sometimes you need to turn that song up all the way and just feel it with every ounce of your bike riding tree climbing porcelain childhood heart

• sometimes people are like the sunset for you, and you look up at them with the highest degree of awe, but sometimes you have to be your own sky and you have to gaze at yourself in amazement

sometimes you need to just go home and sleep in your own ******* bed for once and spend some time with the person you miss the most

when you feel like you're torn between the people you're in love with, because you're in love with everyone, you need to take a step back and realize the one you should be in love with is yourself.

the ones who chase the sunset
the ones who dream of dreaming on abandoned mattresses
the ones who never sleep
the ones who find homes in the passenger seat
the ones with endless wanderlust and bare feet
the ones who travel with journals on their sleeves
the ones with open minds and prying hands
the ones who finally learned how to speak
the ones with golden tongues and opalescent teeth
the ones with glowing green lights in their eyes
the ones with ticklish knees and bruised thighs
the ones with unheard symphonies in their eardrums
the ones who grow with the trees and bloom like chrysanthemums
the ones with ideas too big for the small town scene
the ones who perform silent spoken word for their television screens
the ones bubbling with spontaneity and sentimentality
the ones with broken dreamcatchers, lightbulbs, and families
the ones who are captivated by constellations and insanity
the ones who make snow angels on mountain peaks
the ones with freckles, curly hair, and rosy cheeks
and the one with olive skin and emerald split ends
the ones with tracing thumbs and laureled limbs
the ones who have taken each others flaws in
wrapped them in silk and blocked out the bitter wind
the ones who weave orbs with moth wings
the ones who still buzz with bee stings
the ones with the power and voodoo
the ones who don't think like you do
the earth, the fire, the water, the air
the ones who can't help but to stop and stare
the misfit poets;
the ones who dare to care.

Life without her is like life without the sky, 70% of what it could be. Those were the first words i heard of her and they've never left me since.
She could make anything and anyone sound enticing; she does make everything and everyone sound enticing. She makes me complete; she makes me a poet. Maybe it's because she's so poetic simply by the way she is. The way her words flow out of her so effortlessly; the way she'll pick up and leave at a moments notice if it means an adventure with one of her many human infatuations; the look she gives when her words aren't enough to show her affections; the way she gives me that look with those cherry eyes of hers. The way she looks when i speak of those cherry eyes cause the meaning of that description still baffles her to this day; how she doesn't know the way her eye lashes curl up and flare out, more than ever in those moments; how's there's a sparkle in her eyes she'll never see because it only comes out when she gives that look, a look im sad to think she'd never give her self. She'll never see herself. She sees energies and dynamics and persons and places and sometimes it's through a lense of grey, but her view is spectacular unlike any other; this is why when im with her i get caught up in the moment, nothing but what matters matters. I share a glimpse of that view just for a while; it's like driving when the sun is setting and finally coming to an open field with the perfect view. But the view of her is better. I don't want to experience anything new but with her; each and every abandoned house, nights of wasting a full tank of gas, adventures on bus rides to unplanned places, all the seasons and random trips without reasons.
We first met in summer, sometime in june. The days were sweet and we'd only fall asleep to our tune. Now fall will come and as the wind will carry away our bad thoughts we'll only be left with the good ones that we'll leave on the pages of our notebooks we found together. I know we'll carry on until winter, drinking our coffee to keep us warm after cold sleepless nights because i wasn't there to be her blanket and she wasn't there to block everything out of my mind. Then spring will be next, our last new season together. When the cherries blossom and you'll still wreck the car before you hit that possum and ill never want those cherry eyes to end watching those morning skies with me. And when those cherry eyes can't see the colors of those cherry skies ill show you its colors through a not so poetic description, hoping that in your world of grey i can accurately portray the beauty of its rays because my eyes are the same color as your view and my soul wants to share any part it can with you.

Ink on your body and my body on your mind. You were exciting, as exciting as you would get me when i became intoxicated on your art and your love for the indians and your **** and the way you smiled like my mind and soul was making you happier than my body. I always said i would never rely on another to create my happiness. But the deeper you came inside my mind the more i needed to know what was really going on in yours. Free, we were free. No we didn't like labels, we said from the beginning. But as time went on i needed to know you were mine because each time i let you in you drove a little piece of my soul out. I knew it, i knew that but i continued to let it happen because every time you broke me down it temporarily built me up. Built me up to believe it was more than two bodies, but two souls. But i kept returning because i loved to trace the roses on those shoulders of yours, i wanted to say hello to the indians on your thigh and read the words on your back. And in between you would draw me roses and tell me sweet little lies and buy me a pipe to use with each other in parks to watch the sky spin and twirl like the times we'd purposefully have too much to drink. I was drunk off of a whirlwind of new faces, exciting places; your films and stick-shifts and downtown bars and roaming around in cars. But you never bought me roses, we never did anything sentimental. The closest you got to touching my heart was when you touched everything but.

No one's ever made me feel so empty

What'd you do today?
Can i get a mere glimpse into the life i wish i was apart of, only to be one step closer to understanding your world that you think is full of stress and is anything but care-free as you think me?
Where've you been today?
Who'd you give the gift of your presence, what memories did you make without me? Did you laugh more than normal, was it peaceful? Did you have to look away to avoid eye contact with her when your feelings welled up from inside of you, as they always do, and come out on that face showing nothing but adornment? Did you see deeper into someone else or watch the sunset with a fairy with those cherry eyes of yours? Again?
How was your day today?
Did you make Tunica feel ugly? For once those questions are not my own and as i try to imagine your face as you wrote it a smile comes across mine.