No words
will ever be
enough.
To express
what goes on
in my head.
The thousand
storms.  
that rise and
fall.
While I lay
in the
dark.
Thinking
too hard
about all that’s
scarred.

maybe i don’t like you
maybe i like the idea of liking you
maybe i don’t like being lonely
maybe i like being alone

you see it’s hard for me
it’s hard to know what i feel
because what else can you expect
from someone who doesn’t
f e e l a n y t h i n g

having a heart keeps you alive
but it doesn’t make you feel alive
i can’t tell you what anger feels like
i can only tell you what it sounds like
i can’t tell you what sadness feels like
i can only tell you their signs
i can’t tell you what happiness looks like
i can only tell you it doesnt last

i see the world in colours
they tell me what that person is feeling
they tell me who that person is
they tell me the secrets they hold
but i can’t tell you how it feels like
because i can’t feel

i can’t feel
i can’t feel
i can’t feel
but why do i feel something
when i think of you?

Occasionally I come across a person with brown eyes,
and I compliment them on those peepers.

More often than not, they laugh and say,
"Oh, they're just brown."
Or
"They're **** colored."
Or
"I wish I had blue/green/hazel eyes."

I want to grab them by the shoulders,
pull them close to me,
look into those eyes and say,
"Your eyes are alluring, deep, and warm."

Eyes the color of delicious coffee,
of which I want to gulp every last drop.
Eyes the color of ancient leather,
the binding of the best books.
Eyes the color of the soft soil,
from which everything good grows.

I say,
"Love your eyes, it's how the rest of us see into your soul."

Brown eyes are my favorite eyes.
Brown eyes make me feel like I am home.

Poetry grows as a function of pain.
Organized anguishes conquer your brain.
Brilliance is a burden so rare,
You can not ignore it, so it, you must bear.
You will not sleep; no, you’re not allowed.
You’re a slave to the page til it’s all written down.
The night is long gone, but there’s no time to mourn:
As the sun starts to rise, a young poem is born.
You lament for lost sleep as you stumble around.
Your heart in your ears is a deafening sound.
The pain has subsided, but you’re well aware
That though it’s appeased, it is always still there.
Inspiration lurks, ever waiting to strike.
It exclusively chooses a time you don’t like.
Try as you might, you are bound to the pen,
And after each respite, it comes back again.

Listen to that soothing voice
A soft and unheard solice
Safe if you do make the choice
It frees you from wordly malice
It comes if you just listen