I can't stand the way you don't understand the light.
You imagine yourself painted in gold walking among sandy beaches as the tide comes in,
Sipping on a mimosa, biting at a croissant.
I imagine you think everyday will be like this.
Time grows a bit weary,
We go home,
We leave the tide behind, we can't bring the sand home, we have no space.
I'll be at my desk writing away at the next piece, the next big shot chance at trying to prove to you and the world I got it this time.
You'll go to work, you'll come home and
you'll tell me Sally isn't cut for the job but Andy, your boss, he won't fire her.
You'll look over my shoulder, think to yourself about how this one isn't going to be the big shot.
You'll tell me: "it's coming along well honey."
I won't here the sincereness flicker off your lips. There was no fire starter to begin with.
You'll crawl to bed,
You haven't the strength to speak to me in tongues.
I'll ask, "baby doll what's the matter?"
You'll tell me, "I can't stand this place. I can't stand the way the sunrises. We need to go back."
I'll tell you now, "baby doll, like Rick said to Ilsa, we'll always have Paris."
"We never even went to Paris," you'll say to me.

I love you
and you too.

I need pink hearts
to color over my blue.

I love you,
and I love you them too...

I need you all,
I simply will not choose.

Someone’s favorite color says a lot about them.

If the color they love is blue,
They could be sad.
Or happy.

If the color they love is yellow,
They could be egotistic.
Or creative.

If the color they love is red,
They could be mad.
Or overtly passionate.

If the color they love is green,
They could be jealous.
Or hopeful.

If the color they love is purple,
They could be immature.
Or covertly heartfelt.

If the color they love is orange,
They could be impatient.
Or adventurous.

If the color they love is pink,
They could be shy.
Or romantic.

If the color they love is black,
They could be depressed.
Or determined.

One color has many different meanings.
We can try to understand someone through colors,
Or even actions they do.

But we truly cannot know how someone feels,
Until we ask them.

Pink converse,
white tights,
And she's just hanging there.

I don't dare disturb her,
because somehow I knew
She wasn't real.

(My Mind Questions It)

So I peek...
Peek under the stall door,
to see nothing in it's place.

A tile floor.
Something thick,
it's covering every inch.
But, it is naked to my eyes.

The air is heavy.
Breathing in dense fog
and nothing comes out.

Who was she,
and why would my Hallucination be her death?
In suicide.

I want to write a story called
Pink Heather
about a soul that felt blue
A girl not yet herself,
an entirely wrong hue

When I first observed the rare glass like shimmer in your eyes, I was unaware that in a few months I would look into those very eyes and fantasize on how they'd look in the morning when the only thing you'd view was my messy hair.

When I first observed the rare pink your lips carried, I was unaware that in a few months I'd kiss them and I'd taste the deviness of the creator , unaware that I would like that flavor to fuel my everyday for the rest of my life

When I first observed the rare combination of lines on your palms, I was unaware that in a few months I would envision paint in the incisions , paint from our new apartment.

When I first observed you
I was unaware that in a few months
I would begin to see the rest of my breathing days