It’s been a year
The clock strikes midnight
And its been a year
But this isn’t Cinderella
Or another stupid fairytale
Because it’s been a year
Since anyone has loved you
Or at least pretended they did
There have been people
Who have itched to touch you
Feel your skin under their hands
Sure,
But in the end
You’re left without being desired
For anything more than your body
Maybe it’s easier to make-believe the passion
For romance
But all of the endings are the same
Crying yourself to sleep is your
Happily ever after

If her lips are the universe,
He wouldn't mind leaving Earth
And wander what's out there.

If her lips are the music and lyrics
He wouldn't mind playing every love song that he loves
And understand, cherish every word that's been sung.

-Evangeline Lockhart

You are the sun.
So bright and warm.
you make everything okay.
You.
You are so much to me.
I cant explain.
May be cliche,
but may I say,
you are beautiful.
No song can be sung,
no poem can be written
to describe
you.
You can light up my day,
your words worth more than anything.
You, my dear
shatter my heart,
making me fall to my knees.
You make me wanna pray,
you make me wanna sing
you make me wanna cry
you are you
something that cannot be reckoned with.
Forgive me,
but I am in love
cliche, cliche,
but may I say,
Come with me today,
I want to hold you
close to me.
I want you to love me.
not ***
not lust
just...love me.
You.
love me?
Do you love me?
I wanna know
*do you love me?

I like  you.

I like  you  a lot.

I want to be bored with you.

I want to hold weekly board meetings over the topic of you.

I could impress the shareholders. What do you think?

     I think you enjoy honesty, and despise flattery.
Believe me, I know the difference. I hope you do too.
I am no wily flatterer
I would never say something like, “I’ll sail to the MOON for you,”
something impossible and irrelevant. With the consistency of soupy puke.
I should just as soon say,
“I WILL jump recklessly from the top of a very tall tower, and land—perfectly intact and unharmed
… for you.”
I hope I am not the only one who sees a problem with this sort of logic.
So instead I’ll say:

Let the madness of what this fixation has turned me into, fuel my fears and my ambitions and drive me therefore, to construct a missile, with enough space inside to harness only myself, enough kick in the engine to erase my past—and all the laws of life as we know it.
I will have those memorized by then, and plan to have my hands on new laws unforeseen by any of the other
mainstream earthlings;
maybe using my new third eye to grasp at something up there that was previously air —
& I will beg this nonconsensual devotion you’ve evoked in me please grant me the derision to press the button, and launch myself into that forgetful lazy river that contains all the planets, asteroids, black holes, spaceships, a lonely-wandering U.S. radio transmitter, spilt-paint nebulas, one of Tiger Woods’ golf *****, a drunken astronaut, some of the crew from that Malaysian airplane (you know, the one that went missing), and also there are suns (often called stars), and moons, and there has gotta be a little love floating around somewhere with the celestial ants
and supernovas
and EVERYTHING.
and dissimilarly nothing you can grasp.

to the Moon?
sure,
why not babe,
if moon-rocks could somehow make you fall in love with me,
I would plan to rob the Smithsonian (or probably a similar museum of history but one with less security),
and if that ended up a no-go,
thenyeah.


     Mad. Zoom.


straight to the ******* moon for you.

Yellow soap for a yellow me.
I don't feel like being pure
means being happy.

- I scrub scarring
with more definition
than a dictionary.

Moldy bread kissing
gravid navel oranges,
in a cherry plastic rib cage.

- Can you find me altruism
hidden in the heart  
of ecstasy and rage?

Satellite bobbing above
the air supply,
are you out of reach or am I?

She was taking pictures
of us in the aphotic zone.
Saying, it was the only way
to capture me vulnerable.

Extirpate my species
to save my life.
I am saturnine for
the only adoration I accept  
is mine.

I have a dream.
Not a noble, revolutionary one that will change the discourse of humanity,
but one which would most definitely change my own life,
and possibly yours.
We are driving in your car, which in my imagination is a dark blue skoda octavia, but frankly it doesn't matter,
'cause I'm smiling looking out the window and fighting with you over the radio channel choice.
The smell from the basket of muffins I baked secured on the back seat is wafting through the air,
and I'm playfully slapping away your wondering right hand up my left thigh which the little white summer dress I'm wearing can in no way cover,
only to reach out and ruffle your hair and the back of your neck 'cause I truly can never get enough of you.
You are smiling too, 'cause you know, you always do.
100 miles later as we pull in front of your childhood home I'm excited and nervous at the same time,
so you do have to coax me out of the car and we walk hand in hand to the door and just as you reach out to ring the bell,
I hide behind you trying to pull myself together and touch up on my smile,
but as the door opens I'm back by your side smiling 'cause your grip on my hand is more assuring than anything I've felt before.
I'm shy at first but your mom is lovely,
though it must be hard to see her little boy next to another woman,
God knows I could never share you.
The twinkle in your dad's eyes may as well be a reflection of yours,
his handshake is strong, warm and reassuring.
Your little brother, whose already growing on me, is making eyes at you and you're warning him, almost threatening him to behave, silently of course, it's all in the eyes.
I take in the house,
the corridors through which you ran, fell and got up again,
the walls which echo your laughter, pain, sorrow, fears, achievements and failures,
and stood strong throughout every step of your life's journey in becoming the man you are,
it's like a story, a novel or a theatrical extravaganza unfolding in front of my eyes.
I follow your mom to the kitchen, not because I want to be the perfect domesticated future daughter in law,
but rather because it's where I find comfort.
The stove and oven are hard at work, and I immediately take over peeling potatoes,
as I try to make conversation with your mom in my incredibly limited vocabulary,
and I can tell she appreciates the effort.
When we sit to eat I'm already at home and I just cannot stop smiling,
because it's absolutely perfect.
It's a little too perfect.
After all it's just a dream. My dream. A cliché.
But dreams, hopes and expectations apart I just wish I knew,
if we were more than ***.
If I knew I'd at least have the truth,
because we both know dreams, particularly the perfect ones,
almost never come true.

I want to be loved.
I want someone to take me
out of this dark world,
and put me into a new one.
I want a lover who will tell me I am OK,
and truly mean it.
I want someone who I can trust,
someone who I can love
without question,
without doubts,
without anger
without jealousy.
I often wonder
if I am worthy of love.
Everytime I thought I found it,'
it always ended up never working out.
People make it look easy.
"all you gotta do is
have ***,
make out,
and give gifts"
well, sorry but you are wrong.
I want the lust,
but I want it to be original.
I want someone to recognize me,
and lust for me
I often feel like I am ugly.
I wish someone would tell me I'm wrong,
that my weight does not define my worth.
I wish I could love someone who would love me for who I am.
Everything about me.
My faults,
my humor,
my everything.
Truth is,
I don't think theres anyone out there
that is truly meant for me.
And so what I'm a guy
does that mean anything?
I don't believe people like me,
that people would think I have value.
I can't remember
being complemented.  
But, I don't want to seem conceded.
I just hope there is someone somewhere,
that will love me,
and call me bae,
because they think I really am worth their love.
You think I will?
"There will be someone who will come along"
"There's always more fish and the sea"
and for what, to be called a man *****?
Really?
Come on.
You can't be serious!
I am a human being.
I have emotions.
I recognize beauty both outside and inside quickly,
but why can't anyone see that in me?
Makes me wonder,
what is wrong with me?
Why can't I be loved?
Why?
Why can't it never work out?
Why am I the one who everyone asks out because of a dare
tell. me. why.
"people are cruel"
I've heard it before.
I wish they would ask me for real,
love me for real.

do not misunderstand
I am not trying to claim the cliche
That time heals all wounds
Because it doesn't
It only puts out the fire
So that you can learn to heal them yourself.