I'm a new writer
And I already need time away from writing
Because all I want to write about
is you

When I think about writing
When I think about poetry
You are the first and the only thing
that comes into my mind

You are poetry incarnate
You are my muse
and I need you to be not

I need time away from poetry
because I see you in every one
I said I'll stop for a while
but here I am again
including you in my writing
Writing about me not wanting to write about you

It hurts
Every time I write, it hurts
As it keeps reminding me
that I didn't get you
That in this world,
there's not a happy ending story
of you and me

Saltwater Poet.
Waves washing over me cleanse my soul.
Salt-soaked sand glues itself
to my skin,
it clears the cobwebs in my cluttered mind.
Anchoring back near the coast
is my ultimate goal.
Reaching others through my words
with the help of my
Nautical Muse.

she's afraid of reoccurring nightmares
afraid of choosing a single instrument to play, she can't stay with one
beautiful sound-producing musical wonderwall,
of committing herself to one,
and I was wondering if she was really talking about instruments
or talking about people,
talking about me--
am I a violin or a piano?
it doesn't matter because she says she wouldn't stay with any of them
anyway.
she's afraid of going downstairs to brush her teeth at night in the dark
and instead of picking up a tooth brush
she's afraid of picking up a razor in its place,
and god i tell her
all about my nightmares
how I run and outrun myself
or try to,
I reveal that I fear and love being
alive, I expose myself and my personal
horrors,
and I tell her, tell her it all, and for the first time
she looks at me with eyes that aren't empty,
eyes that are sorrowful as they are
compassionate and she tells me
"it's okay".

My poems were about you
Each and every one
Connected to you
In some way

The day I fell out of love
Was the day
The very day
I stopped being a poet

You were my muse
Now I'm left with no inspiration
No tears
No feelings
Nothing

We were a toxic couple
We both knew that
From the beginning

I was destroyed
In every way possible
And your heart
Was crushed

For that
I apologize
I'm sorry

Happy anniversary

s.j.d

Enough is never truly enough, is it?
Something is always there, always keeping you awake at night.
You don't believe in yourself. You hold everything so dearly in your arms out of fear of losing them, and you don't understand what you are or how or why something would stick around to help find out.
But I want you to know, you are an inspiration.
Let me tell you, there isn't a one object in this universe that cannot prove to be inspiring in anyway. This world was meant to keep you alive, all you must do is take what you were given.
I plea that you will always choose to remember these words when you are at a loss for hope.
We are not here to judge one another, we are here to inspire.
And you my dear, you are my muse.

Written words of thoughts redacted
about the glimmer of light refracted
in you.

I see the sun in your eyes
Burning, warm, and full of life
with the faintest hint of an eclipse,
a wonder for all to behold,
your eyes look to another.

And yet,
and yet I still look into the sun,
not caring that it blinds me,
for all I want to see...
is you.

This cancerous crush consumes me.
Like a cigarette addict,
I just can't get enough.
It kills me, but I don't care.

I want you to drink me in,
but I'm a taste you haven't acquired.
I want to be your muse,
but I leave you feeling
less than inspired.

I am a violin, and you, a virtuoso
that can play my notes perfectly.
But, you've composed your ballad
for the viola.

And I sit here alone, playing a requiem,
mourning the loss of a love
that will never be.

when I sit in bed listening to the sounds of the city outside my window
I feel like I owe it a poem, creativity, something beautiful
to eternalize it's beauty in someway
the sounds of cars speeding through the bridge at 3:34am
souls repelled and pulled by the never-ending enigma that is the city
the heels of woman clacking across the cement, finding their ways home
the white noise in the rare moment that silence invades
this all silently screams to me, "paint me like a French girl"
I'm a muse, waiting to be picked upon
and nothing will ever be good enough