The place for the Angels
Is where I would like to be.
Can They hear the echo of my hearbeat
In the lowly ground?
No, probably not.
I wonder how the dirt feels,
All encompassing and eternal.
I'm in it.
To be in it
Is to not feel it.
They know why.
I'm already gone.

No similes
No metaphors
No allegories
No alliteration
No irony
No paradox
No rhythm, and no rhyme
No more stanzas
No more verses
Only
truth:
I miss you.

**2 8 . 0 7 . 1 4

I’m a writer
I **** my own joy to jolt down words
I **** heroes and I see beauty too late
I leave people just as they leave me too.

I’m a writer
I destroy the people I care about, make them leave
as I run and I miss them when their bags are packed.
But their stories still travel my world;
my pages.

So, I think I’m a writer.

I find my muse and I get afraid and
the demons inside of me force me to fill
the pages. And I do it.

Only to realise a muse might
also be someone I care about.

But I push people away.

And I give myself a lonely life;
in which I bleed and sweat for empty
words and empty stories.

**4.04.14

love; something everyone wants
but no one knows what it looks like.

#life; something everyone has
but no one knows how to use it.

#sad
  #depression
    #pain
      #death; for when poets get ‘the feels’

      #heartbreak #you #him #her #heart
       Poets who fall in love fast with the
       Same reckless abandon that made
       You climb all the way to the top.
       Those scars used to make you cry
       Now they make you write.

jokes, no limits
everybody needs to laugh, to dream
so let's rush and get away
spend the weekend with vampires
extroverts not needed

just need a friend to get by
(or i'd probably go insane)
read, write, listen with me
don't think i don't care about you:
of all the somethings and someones,
nothing compares to this, to you