People one minute they're here,
The next they disappear.
Start to wonder if they were ever real,
Even from myself I begin to fear,
That I may not be sincere with everyone I hold dear.

I believe the people we are today is made up of everyone we've met and everything we've been through..
So it makes sense if we lose parts of ourselves when we lose people,

It's okay if I'm contradicted, insecure, or have anger issues because I lost the people who made me this way..
They were the Pablo Picasso to my painting.
I am a painting with weird colors and unfinished lines and circles..
And I am upset at times because the good people couldn't draw more pretty parts on my painting,
And the bad ones couldn't stay long enough to fix the dark ugly parts.

Would you accept all the dark parts?
That I may never be all yours?
Never be all here, with you?
Knowing that some shreds of me are still lingering with those who abandoned me?
Would you still choose to stay?
To love what's left of me?

My poetry isn't just good words which rhyme well,
Isn't about stories to simply tell,
It's the tears which I never shed,
Everything that could never be said,
The feelings which I don't want to take to bed.

I look for the smallest details
The silliest most blurry memories
Even pain sometimes helps to remember what we used to have.
Anything to feel the way I used to feel.

Be my morning sunshine,
My goodnight kiss.
Be my favorite love song, always on repeat.

Be my first thought, and my last one.
My laughter, my tears.
The one I'll give the last slice of pizza and the last bite of my cookie.

The reason I write,
The words to my sentences.

Let your name be melody to my ears.