Cause and effect is crazy because he could’ve done this or that but he didn’t and I didn’t and nobody did.

At least I didn’t write a poem about him..

So...
A line there, and a thing there,
A circle there, and a staircase there.
A little light here, a little dust there,
A little confusion here and there.
How is this true?
This mystery.
They say it all the time, like ALL the time...I say it too.
But I don't get it...maybe they don't too.
How do I let go.
When I can't see the light.
I am really trying to get this right.
Just don't disturb me now,
as I sit and stare in this room,
trying to figure out what, how to take up room.
So that fear and excuses have no room...

i don't know how
"i don't feel like crap when i'm with you."
morphed into
"i love you"

but i'm glad it did, and i'm glad
that you said
it back.

you said it back.

The poems you don't read
Are the poems I don't write.
The wandering thoughts and puzzle
Pieces that are never found or placed.
The urge to scream,
Or blend into a puddle of melted candy.

I know what you like.
You enjoy the colour pink and sound of pianos and feeling sad.
But the good kind of sad.

I know what you need.
You need to love yourself.
Or at least like yourself.
You need to breathe and create.
You need to dance and breathe.
Please.
Just.
Breathe.

The poems I don't type aren't raw
Or artsy or beautiful or ugly.
They are scared and lonely and everything that I can't put into words.

The poems I don't write are simultaneously the best and the worst.
I don't understand them and it terrifies me.
That's why I don't write them.

I wish that I was going to Venice to be with you.
So I could stop wishing I was going to Paris to be with him.