He is the sun
Where my world revolves around

He is the missing puzzle piece
The piece that I've found

He is the song on the radio
That I can't stop singing

He is the words my heart tell
The words my mouth can't speak

He is the truth
Behind my every lie

He is the wings
That make angels fly

He is the voice
I always want to hear

He is that person
I always want near

He is the color of the sky
When everything is bright

He is the glow of the moon
That gives light every night

He is the sound
Of the ocean waves

The song in my playlist
One of my fave

He is the sunshine
After the rain

The happiness
And the pain

He is the blush on my cheeks

The butterflies inside me

He is the smile on my lips

The one that got my heart

The boy who sings

describe every tone and rhythm between the lines of every sentence , express the expression of the any emotion and see what it creates

breath in your thoughts, relax the fear, do what it takes to keep going, just don't , ever, give up on your faith, believe, your rage to keep living

create another day between the seconds of a minute, and longer it for it for hours, and still about for weeks, reinvent time

these words
are used
to describe,

and you
pin them
to my
forehead.

these words
are used
to describe,

*but i will
not
let them
describe
me.

How can every word
   Whizzing around my head
Be the exact words
    I could never use
To describe
                                                                                                          My existence?

crisp pages
indented fom my pen's point,
whisper beneath the dry skin
of my cracked palm.
they flutter together,
butterfly wings,
and weave together a time
so melodious.

No one cared until I started holding a pencil
until I started writing
let's call them poems

Did writing make people actually care about me?
Or did it just make them curious enough to ask about me?

Do they like my writing?
Or do they like how I can describe things in ways they can't?

Has this pencil brought me closer to people?
Has it made them finally see me?

Questions start to occur
every time I hold this pencil of mine

questions question question
so many questions
and not enough answers

If you ask me to speak my feelings
I will not be able to utter a word
I will not be able to form a comprehensive sentence
However
Give me a pencil
and I will express... gladly
Whether through writing or drawing

I suppose I owe a lot to my pencil
You might see it as a wood that leaves mark on papers
but to me
It's a whole world,
a world that I'm eager to explore

Thank you pencil
Thank you for being there for me
when my tongue isn't
Thank you for speaking up for me
Thank you for being my voice

wondering how you win at love
do you have to wait
until it's over?
what's the victory then
in losing it?

somebody needs to think
of some new metaphors, because
all these tired old scratched-up symbols
lead to dead ends

forget about falling, stop calling it
an end, stop calling it a means
just stop calling it anything
but love

let it describe itself, let it climb
up its own legs, let it be
what you will it, what you feel it to be

let it be what you feel
can't the victory just be
the feeling of holding on
and staying?
losing, falling, calling it anything but
plain old groundbreaking
love
is what it really is

we place so much importance
on words, don’t we?
like these black lines
define us or something
like these speech bubbles can represent
the real thing inside
so why do we find words for things
that do not exist?
and why are there some things
that we cannot describe?
four letters, four words
an entire book isn’t enough
to explain how i feel right now
when i hardly know myself
and that’s just the thing
we place so much importance on words
as if they can say what we can’t
as if i could just reach inside myself
and pull out this feeling, confused and unheard
and words will fill in the blanks for me
but it’s not like that
we place so much importance
on something we created ourselves
and we write words down, like love
and hate and everything in between
and it seems to me like putting pen to paper
just solidifies the definition
tattoos it into reality’s skin, and it sinks in
and that word takes hold
whether or not it was true
of course, here i am
hypocritical as usual
tearing down the one thing
that lets me speak my mind
but i guess i just wish there was some other way
to figure out how i really feel