as always, i have been reading poems new to me,
by poets also new to me.
while my eyes caressed each word as if it were the last orb of breathe of the last flower to freeze in the winter,
the engines in my dingy brain halted, without warning.
without any obvious street sign or road block.
but then the pearl of a thought latched itself to me, became apart of me.
and for days now i have been molding this thought in my hands as a preschooler using a new tube a playdoh would.
my fingers manipulated the string of words,
maybe this will wor- no no maybe if i pinch this here it wi- no no no
no
    no
no
     NO
so, i decided to come flat out and bring to life the embryo of an idea of a thought that was swelling and letting water into my brain.

who is the "you"?
yes, i said it who the hell is the "you"?

i have seen it is the best and most famous poets' poems,
i have even seen it in my own.
the "you".

who is your "you"?
you know, example: when you write a poem and instead of saying "Sam" (your ex you haven't gotten over) you just put the word "you" instead?

look at these:

Sam kissed my eyelids,
but Sam only kissed them so i wouldn't see his lies.

and you turn it into:

You kissed my eyelids,
but you only kissed them so i wouldn't see your lies.

another example:

the "you" in this poem is, well, you.

Everything will always depart,
except what you want to leave.
And what stays
cannot bear to look you in the eye.
Because it knows it isn't welcome.

It just wants a home
to tear the walls down.
It just wants some flesh
to tear the soul out.

But who are you, friend?
Is your purpose to teach
something that earthly knowledge cannot fathom?
Or is your purpose motionless and hollow?
A boy sitting in the rain with a frozen gaze,
and no coat?

They say you must be a part of me,
not all of me.
But no matter how bright the days become,
no matter how many times you love me
(If anyone could actually loved me.),
you hold on with your bruised fingers
hopelessly interlocked.

The truth that I can't tell
and won't tell
(because I don't want to speak it
just as much as you don't want to hear it)
is that I actually hate me
more than I hate it.
Because while it flows through me
arbitrarily
like a black fog floating in the breeze,
I am sentient.
I have the power to stop it.
And I can't.

And so I must welcome it.
And once I do,
I still don't believe it will look me in the eye.
Because there's nothing to look at.

I fell in love with the boy your words made you out to be
but the truth laid behind your poetry

The bitter-sweet chill of November air reminds me of the moment my eyes met yours
and something inside me whirled brighter than the fall leaves
masking the chilly air
the warning a snowstorm would soon approach
and hit me harder than your words ever could

But how was I to know I would one day memorize the curve of your lips,
as they smiled so delicately against mine
and the way your hands pulled me closer into your embrace,
engulfing me
like the lap of the ocean's waves
right before the tsunami hit

How am I supposed to forget the way your strong hands felt running through my hair,
desperately trying to finish the race,
frantically scrambling to cross that finish line
strands of chestnut hair impairing your vision
to the sparkling blue eyes
wanting
and the burning in your thighs
aching, growing stronger,
until you finished
that
race

How am I supposed to erase the feeling of your lips,
one with mine
the taste of Listerine,
and wanting more,
on your tongue

I remember the way you looked at me with those haunting eyes and award winning smile
as if you were Brad Pitt and I was Angelina Jolie
as if you were The Green River Killer and I was your next victim
as if you actually gave a **** about me

I remember your touch,
soft
curious
desperate
venturing places no one had ventured before
exploring my boundaries,
in more ways than you could ever comprehend

I remember your letters
filled with those words
I fell so hard for

But now the pen is in my hands
the fall leaves have turned into winter snow
my lips no longer belong with yours
and the race is long lost

I have lived months absent of your lips
your stares
your touch
and now?
the truth lies behind my poetry

soon you'll be buried forever,
and i'll be the one who'll dig the hole

When you look at me,
Are you really looking at me?
Or areyou just looking through me?