The typical 2 a.m. poem is messy
because middle of the night thoughts have no structure

The typical 2 a.m. poem is deep
because darkness is perfect for existentialism

The typical 2 a.m. poem is raw
because it's hard to edit when you're tired

This 2 a.m. poem is just another 2 a.m. poem
desperately trying to be unique

i know my feelings aren't significant,
no matter what my mother tells me, and i'm losing my words.

my eclectic mind is in a way
lost. lost, lost, lost, i'm so freaking lost but this repetition of confusion will do nothing to save me from myself.

my hair's all over the place. you say it doesn't make me look a mess. you say it makes me seem real. you say
nothing anymore.

this is thirst,
the force of which could **** innocent people. a drought of love can be dangerous.

soft sound.
a whisper into your satellite dish reminding you that you are deaf to beauty and blind to the love that's in front of you and always have been.

i.
i still feel you in those times when i can drain the pain from my veins just long enough to smile, before it rips my skin and crawls its way back into my blood stream.

ii.
you are every poem i have ever written about love in a nutshell. you are so **** pretty. your pretty is a shredder, still ripping me to particles when all i want to do is sleep. forever.

iii.
i'd sing no doubt but you don't speak anyway. if i disregarded that though, would you see the irony? would you see that what i mean is i love you, i love you, i freaking love you, and i'm sorry i didn't try hard enough.

iv.
i still think you weave words like blankets for newborn angels. even when the blanket is wool, and it's itchy, and god babe, was that last poem about me? because if so, i want to ask if i'm a baby angel or if i'm just one or the other, a baby or an angel. because right now i don't feel like either, i just feel lost.

v.
you make me sick.

vi.
not because i don't love you.

vii.
i'd prefer you burn me with words instead of whipping my already scarred heart with silence. now my wings are falling off and i am falling apart with them. the cloud i'm floating on is pitch black and its on a pathway to something horrible.

viii.
i define fragility with silent sobs in the back of my throat. my wrists still throb even though for almost a year, i've been totally clean. the amount time i've been clean is coincidentally very close to coinciding with the amount of time i've known you, and i don't know if ever knew you because i never thought you'd just go like this.

ix.
i left for you. almost everything i do is for you- why don't you understand?

x.
i'm still not ready to say goodbye so the change in the weather tries to do it for me. it says that a new season means a new life, and since i didn't know how to live without you in the old one, maybe now i can learn to live without you in this new one.

xi.
this is almost a goodbye. one day, maybe it will be.

She's a messy lover.
She's most beautiful
in wrinkled sheets
and unmade beds.
With tangled hair,
chapped lips,
and confidence,
she draws you close.
She's a slow kisser.
She savors
every breath
you draw from each other,
until you're
living inside of her
and her inside of you.
She's the painting
that was never finished,
but is somehow
a ******* masterpiece.
She's a puzzle
that you'll never figure out,
and for that
you'll only desire her more.
She will
tame you with her charm,
frighten you with her truth,
and
make you fall in love with her,
because
you will never find a woman
as
simply complex
as her...

You all paint this perfect picture
And forget the mess
Of all your brushes
With each new color
Adding to the murkiness
Of your cup of water
That washes off each stroke
Your reds
Your blues
Your highs
Your lows
Ripple together when you dip that brush back in
The canvas might be a masterpiece
But your hands are not.

i was asking you before
to discontinue your supply of poetic awakening
the ink that you're always giving me
has expired and dried two years ago
and i can never write about now.

i can never write about "what ifs",
i can never poetically execute my dreams
because i am contaminated by
our "what could have beens."

babe, your expired ink tastes bitter & toxic
but i just cant seem to stop you.
i don't ever want to stop you
i dont want to step forward.

here i am again, haunted by your memories
leading me back to the past that i have learned to seek shelter in.

you were to glue that pieces my bones together
whenever these four walls are declaring that i'm falling apart.

you are an endless pool of ink
and an endless pad of paper,
you want me to continue writing
because you said my face was too pretty to explode.

how could i step away from that?
i wish that my muscles would be strong enough to lift me away from here.
i wish i could say that this isn't about you.

i am never gonna move on from you
because the day that i do,
the day i will stop being a poet.

i'm tired
i'm so tired

it makes me wonder if i'm always this easy to fool

don't cradle me in your
- I love you's
in your
- I'm sorry's
in any of your excuses

don't you dare try to plant another rose in my stomach
i'm starting to over cultivate
don't you dare try to plant another rose on my lips
spring is hidden behind my cold winter words

this poem is a mess
but who cares

i shall sleep once more
free of restraints and excuses

the gardener to my own garden