He doesn't think about you
Before he falls asleep, and
You do not play the starring role
In his dreams. You are dreaming
Of his lips; his eyes; his laugh –
Really, you have only
Seen them through a screen, or
For mere seconds in reality.

He will not notice you,
He will not think about you,
Or love you –

In anywhere but your head.
You are being childish;
You must grow up.
This is not a fairy tale, Cinderella,
You will not go to the ball.
He is Prince Charming, after all.

Smoke inhabits my throat. My friends,
Intoxicated, are complimentary –
They say they wish their aesthetic was mine.
My lips, painted baby blue,
Hold loosely onto the Marlboro cigarettes.
I think of a boy, who I don't truly
Know, and I wish he'd attended tonight,
Although he was not invited.

I think in depth of social circles,
And of how circles are impenetrable –
They go continuously round with no edges
To break. I begin to realise that
That is the reason you aren't mine,
And never will be. However, can't
Circles overlap? Why should we not be
The arcs that meet? You are not here,
And I wish you were. What would you
Think about me taking a draw,
****, more than one? I said to you
Once that I would not become another
Teenager, another statistic, who inhales.

I guess I lied.

I think of all this –
As they take ***** shots,
And I distract myself from you
For a moment, by asking why
They'd drink it straight.

I am the inexperienced poet
Who has loved only a handful of times.

Some would say that I am naive,
But ignorance is bliss, and my life is anything

But blissful. I am the inexperienced poet,
Who knows only of unrequited love.

I am the dark haired girl, who has been
Kissed too few and far apart

To count having been kissed at all.
She loves too quick and falls too hard,

For this she has broken bones and fading scars.
I am the inexperienced poet.

I find that the poems I write about you
lack the impressive metaphors and stanzas.
They are less raw, less ******, less bleak,
than the lines I wrote previously.

I find that the poems I write about you
are half empty, or half full. There is a void
in my brain, because I'm not sure
if your eyes are more of a cerulean or a sapphire.

I used to have another "blue eyed wonder,"
although now, in hindsight, I see that
he was not wondrous, he was unexceptional,
and you are more worthy of that title.  

But, my poems are suffering at your ubiquity,
as I cannot find the suitable analogies. And it
makes me question how true we could be.

If I can tell you my innermost feelings in a heartbeat,
is this a sincere, an unfeigned, a dependable love?
Or just another opportunity for me to get hurt?

They said your face lit up
When you saw me in our village today.
Apparently you smiled, and
Your blue eyes illuminated.

They said, the other day,
You looked to the sand, and smiled
When you saw that
I was sitting watching the sea.

They said some things
That I hope to be true, however,
I must be realistic, and avoid
Falling for you.

Maybe* Saturn and Jupiter
had a feud, and that is why
Jupiter has the majority
of moons. Maybe Saturn was
misunderstood, with her icy
rings, a difference too great,
causing the moons to tremble
in her presence, spin, rotate.
But, Jupiter could have been
teased, for being too big,
clumsily turning over words.
And Pluto, the spectator,
invisible — for being so small,
short-sighted, but watcher of all.

The solar system reminds us
mere mortals, of how small
our planet is. Yet, we remind
our galaxy that we have
the loudest voices, for our race
could populate the largest
of comets, the smallest suns.
We burn brighter than Venus'
lava, we scream to the velvet sky.

We, the human race,
*own the universe.