Have you ever feel the need of talking
But nobody is there to listen to you

Have you ever feel the need to be loved
But nobody is there to love you

Have you ever feel the need to share your secret
But nobody is there to keep it with you

Have you ever feel the need of comfort when you're crying
But nobody is there to pat your back

Have you ever feel its better been dead
Than living your life with no one around you

Now tell me if you can feel what I feel inside
Tell me if you ever go through all those feeling above

It is a priviledge to be loved by a poet,
to be embraced by the meter and the rhyme
and caressed by soft metaphors and sharp alliterations.
To be painted a universe with words and run-on sentences
that converge in a single thought expressed with
similes and repetitions of a single symbol.
It is an honor to be loved by a poet,
to be celebrated with odes, mourned with elegys
and elevated to a pedestal by a canticle.
It is a marvel to be loved by a poet,
to be the muse of long, weary nights of concentration
and be part of passionate lines in dramatic monologues
as each is recited with the intonation of rising ardour.
To be submerged in sizzling appreciation of one's quirks
and virtue.
To be loved and to love.
To provoke an inspiration and a sigh of ephemeral longing
and bring about a remedy to the mourning.
It is a misery and joy to be loved and be of unrequited
provocative inspiration to the riveting mind of a lone
and solitary poet.

take me to the ocean that's where i want to die
thats where you sat and held me every time i cry
but now my tears are because of you
so it's the only thing i want to do
you're my anchor so release me
and watch me drown at sea
i can see you're done trying
which means i should be done crying
but these tears will never end
into the depths i'll descend
my insides are already sinking
caused by too much deep thinking
so please let me drown in the sea
don't pretend that you'd miss me

She waits for you,
Under a blossom tree,
Nestled in the furthest corner,
Of her floral mind.

She waits for you,
Throughout the winter,
And let's the cold,
Seek shelter within her icy veins,
Rooting her limbs to the frozen earth.

She waits for you,
As the rain falls through the wilting leaves,
And is thankful that she,
Is not the only tearful heart.

She waits for you,
Even when the storm grows violent,
And she grows fearful,
That the wind will break her fragile bones,
And tear down her vacant foundations.

She waits for you,
In the summer warmth.

She's waiting for the flowers.

*but they will cease to bloom

Here I am, looking up causes for headaches
at 1 am
when I know it will always come back to you.
My hands found the bottom of the ocean
as I cleaned old movie tickets out of my car today.
I can see your honesty from here.
It took my composure on its way out the door.
I’m not bitter anymore.
I’m just tired.
And I’m tired of being so tired.
I’m sorry you didn’t stay.
I’m sorry that I apologize
for all the times you didn’t.
I keep forgetting these things
are not one-sided,
and so,
I’m sorry I gave you everything
for nothing in return.
You tasted like love,
and I was parched.
Still am.

open up your soul and let me explore your heart.
when i'm walking in black caves instead of traditional red ones,
i promise to fix the cracks and tears and impurities life has put there along the way.
and when i get lonely and i start to miss your voice,
i'll find my way to your head
and visit your thoughts.
i know it's dangerous there,
like i'm walking straight into a tornado
with your insecurities racing by me to get to your eyes
and your confusion darkening a corner of your mind.
and with your loneliness walking by itself to it's room,
with its black eyes and pure white hair,
pale skin and lips that have never smiled before
you can't help but think about the thoughts running through it's own head
and how scary it'd be to walk through there.
maybe that's why it's so lonely,
everybody's scared they'd never walk out of its mind.
and when i can't take the chaos anymore,
i'll run to your spine
and count your vertebrae.
and when i get bored there,
i'll walk to your hands
and think about what destruction they've done
when they broke that mirror
and when they wrote that poem that hangs in my room
and after i have my map of your body put together
i'll leave it in your heart.