Your life's a mess
My life's a mess
Your love's a mess
My love's...
        I don't know
Maybe I don't have it
Do I not
Do I feel it
Do I know how it feels
        No
        I don't
        I don't know how it feels
Do you
You do
But you don't feel it now

Yours is a mess
But not for me
Mine's... unsure

I live,
under the quilted
periwinkle skies,
of my room.
This is where
my clothes
amass themselves
and spread their empty
arm and legs,
like a stubborn,
overgrown child.

everything is so messy,
i feel this aching pain when i'm at home, and when i'm out with friends i feel lonely.
my mind feels like my bedroom, a right off.
sure, you can tell me to clean it and i can try,
i can want to clean it but no matter how many times i shove that ***** laundry back into a pile; and no matter how many times i throw everything out,
it all comes back out sooner than later. i crave a tidy life, i tidy mind and a tidy room, but it's so hard to keep up with.
i would rather let sleep cradle me in it's gentle arms for the rest of the day, and do it tomorrow.
though, tomorrow never comes and thus my room and my mind stay the same.
a vicious, but comforting cycle.
i like it when things stay the same, i like it more than i should.
all i've had my whole life is change,
now i find comfort in static, i find comfort in knowing what's going to happen tomorrow.
i find comfort having routine even though the cycle i'm in is destructive and makes me hate myself, it's hurtfully comforting.
that doesn't make any sense but here's something that might,
feeling something is better than feeling nothing
negative or positive
maybe that's why i stick around you.
you don't help me clean, if anything you make even more of a mess, but that keeps the routine going.
i'll clean tomorrow. then turns into tomorrow. then tomorrow. then tomorrow. then...

I may be a mess but that’s ok
I’m just a rough draft
My stanzas may be uneven
My rhyme scheme nonexistent
But I carry the seeds of a masterpiece

These scattered scribblings will someday mature into defined and refined lines
My tiny wriggling tadpoles of thought will grow legs and a voice
They will explore territory they never dreamed existed

This writer’s block will topple off the edge of my desk and fall to the floor with a clatter

My words will burst through the dam,
First in awkward little leaks
But then in strong, steady streams
That leap forward into unfamiliar territory
With a laugh and a gleeful scream

These nattering notes will resolve themselves into chords and phrases
A motif will leap out of the disordered madness
Stumbling steps will lead to confident strides
And the audience will be satisfied

But for now I remain unfinished

Stare. Stay on me for a bit
Linger your sight on my lips.
Can you feel yourself
coming closer?
Snake your hands around
my waist.
I place mine on your cheek
your neck.
Ready to pull ourselves closer.
Look at me still.
Close your eyes
and I close mine.
Kiss me
Kiss me slow
Take your
God
****
time...
Stops now
There is
Only
Us
Until
the heat
suffocates

We breathe

And it's over

I need a sense of familiarity
One that could anchor my body to the ground
'cause things have been strange lately
And lately the faces and places register as strangers in my brain

Only the voices retained their familiarity,
convinced me that they are the only one to trust
'cause anyone that can hold me easily
Can let go just as fast