'I can read you like a book'

Can you read me like a book?
Because if you can,
I must be written in Latin;
Some long-lost language you do not speak.
Or perhaps -
You are holding upside-down;
The wrong-way-round;
Or back-to-front.

Am I made of paper?
Is my skin a composition of wood-pulp,
Rice, and cotton?
Do you see my history
Running across collar-bones?
My thoughts printed over elbow;
Emotions scrawled upon my stomach?

No.
I have a spine.
Yes.
But that does not make me a novel,
Nor your novelty.
You cannot pick me up from the shelf
For light holiday-reading,
I am not here to excite your imagination;
I am not here for your entertainment.
My life is not fiction;
My future not fact;

So, do not say you can read me like a book,
Because books don’t have lungs or mouths or hands,
Books do not grow with the years they withstand.
But I do and I will.

It was never about trust or promises or destiny, was it?
All you cared about was money, your life, your health, and your lusts.

You threw me away as if I was a crumpled paper,
my words didn't matter to you,
neither did my feelings.

Yet I stayed by your side,
because I thought that I could see a change in you.
I thought I would...
Alas, I only wasted my time and yours,
and also the food I cooked.

I wish I could breathe
Your words are crushing
Stop lying
Saying you were loving me
Some sort of love story
you've thought up in your head.
Darling you just hurt me,
soon I'll be dead.
My lungs are crippling,
crumbling like paper
Little tiny rips
in my skin with sandpaper
breaking me apart
so very slowly
this isn't love
I can tell,
because I'm so lonely.

we sat at a compete
the author knew that
there is a tie or secret
between us or our heart

he ordered to sit in wide
he ordered to tell what i like
to meet and talk and write

we took two parts of papers
she wrote
i wrote
he took
he opened

she wrote my name
i wrote her name

the attendants were so amazed
they cut thier hands for clapping

for now I will keep my little papers
because they bring me joy
but one day I'll chop myself up like a piece of clay
grey and soft and firm
to a small blank surface
ready to mold
ready to begin a new road
cross my fingers
not to sicken
cross my heart
not to remorse
mourn my memories that leave me still
but break from this proper cycle
fill my trashcan full of papers
that soon will empty
by then, there will be nothing
I could hope to do
my treasures are fleeting
and I, for once, will be new

eden is hands
covered in ink stains
from my soul escaping
onto the pages
of tattered notebooks,
listening to the rain
fall softly on the window
like a lover's kiss
upon my shoulder
while the amber haze
of candlelight
burns slowly,
gently dancing
in golden celebration
across the darkness
just like the flames
that swallow me at your touch.

If my heart was drawn on paper,
it would never fall apart.

I'd hang it on the refrigerator
like my daughter's works of art.

Though it bends
and crumples over time,
it cannot be erased.

    Where real hearts are heavy,
this one would be weightless
    folding easily into pockets
    like money
for betting
    
    win or loose,
    it unfolds unphased.

This is child-like thinking.

    If my heart was drawn on paper

it would rip, break
I would throw it
in every direction
until it went missing

They'd return it to me
deformed,
no longer the drawing
I made
when we were just kids
K i s s i n g

I'd barely recognize it.

1 2 3 4
I delcare love a war.

So I'll make myself
a new drawing
and let go
of the past.

I'll leave the missing pieces
where they are,
with who I am
intact.

I'll pretend nothing is broken
and that my heart on paper
is meant to last.

This is childish thinking.

Still, I'll pick up the pieces
and start over
as my drawing goes up
in flames I'll rise above

Though the heart on paper
burns to ashes,
in the embers
I'll find new love.

Poets are annoying

When regular people are busy,
they sit and wait to drop
words into the toilet
that'll make you dizzy

They stare at the blank page
the way one stares straight
at the bathroom wall
when taking a
"shhh"
as in, "shut up" and "listen"

the few who stop to do so
won’t be impressed at all
they’ll hear only…sounds
and get headaches, or frowns
they'll choose to forget it

poems are misunderstandings
and the few who dare write them
are nameless turds, wiping
their words onto paper
and calling the stains "art"

my "shhh" is fresh, they'd say
when their breath smells like brain ****

so the moment this poem comes out
I’d like you to throw it in the toilet
and flush it down

ha ha
maybe that’s why poetry
as an art form
stays underground

it stinks
to write what no one will read
or have thoughts no one will think

poets are lonely creatures
locked in stalls with too much ink
not enough toilet paper
and the ironic need to be heard

or worse, to sound cool
with every word-dump they take
only to emerge from their solitude
the way one emerges from the bathroom:
feeling great