If they do not see honesty in your smile,

Feel compassion in your touch,

Warmth in your laughter and sincerity in your words,

If they look at you with conviction, and doubtful eyes  

           perhaps it's time to walk away.

For it is already clear:
         The beauty within your heart cannot appease every beast.

A photo may say a thousand words but they lack as much meaning.

take a swig from the jug
in the dark; watch the flies move
through the bedroom
and congratulate the rest on
throwing out the things they used to wear
jokes on them, our wardrobes
were tattoos, and they aren’t skin deep
recollect a book of stamps
call it your past and burn it
there are far better things to stab with needles
than the arms of patients
being waved in distress

It is
frightening
to think
that

my lack
of confidence
will
surely

be
The End
of
me

It's that heart-clenching feeling when you want something so badly.
It's the ache you feel right down to your bones when you feel a part of you is missing.
(how could you miss arms you've never felt?)
The pain, the longing just has a way of eating you from the inside out, until all that's left is a hollow body.
Just a living being wanting, wanting to feel that semblance of warmth, of love.

When I haven't written for as long as I have,
I begin to think of any possible inspiration.
I have kissed and made love,
I have argued with others and battled myself.

Since no inspiration has arisen, I find myself
Torn between searching the ends of the Earth
And giving up.

Words are the building blocks of the modern world,
And I am unable to use them like I used to.
I find my poetry becoming essay-like.
Robotic. Empty. Hollow. When I speak my poetry,
I lack passion. My vocal chords leave me flat.
It may be spreading to my mind.

I lack passion for words and emotions all together
I am purely physical. I express my emotions in
An ordinary way, but I would rather sing and write.
I am becoming lost.

Why can't I just love you?

sometimes
i stay awake
at night
(your hand
between
my knees)
and wonder
if this is what
being alive
feels like

when you wake
and ask
for my love
(your breath
hot against
my face)
you do not realise
you’ve asked
for an ocean
when i have only puddles