We're like a puzzle,
Just two opposite pieces,
*That fit perfectly.

i'm laying in bed
and i can't seem to close my eyes
without worrying.
i sometimes lose focus
on the things i think i want,
like a camera that doesn't
zoom in quite enough on the sunset
that has the perfect mixture of colours.

i suppose that the best
i can hope for in the future is for
the sunset to get closer.
or to buy a better camera.

You are my favourite poet
You inspire me
It goes without saying that I love you
And even more so
When you breathe your words into me
And pierce my soul with your ink
Never stop writing your phrases on my heart
Always tell me in abstract
How my chameleon eyes remind you of calm streams
And brighter days served in a history of torment
We are two lost pieces to the puzzle
pushed under the couch
Vidi vici veni
I love it because you said it and I believed you
Because it is one thing
to say one thing is another
But it takes a poet to analyse it to it's full potential
So analyse me
Talk me into your amazing mind
And you can with ease
Because you are my favourite poet

You tipped me over. I spilled my words into your hands, they filled the creases in your palms and the spaces between your fingers. You held them as though they were malleable, crushed them with strength and shook them off as though they were something ***** that you couldn't get rid of. I still remember the night I found you trying to pick up the pieces, looking for the hidden message behind what I tried to tell you. Your knuckles ******, your face dripping with sweat, your eyes clothed in desperation. You replaced the heart on your sleeve with a broken one. You never gave me the parts of you that didn't need fixing. I wish you stopped blaming me for being the reason you're still filled with apathy, I wish you would of realized that I spent all this time looking for the right way to tell you I'm not what you're looking for. I wish everything I said was enough for you to leave, I wish my hands were strong enough to push you away. We both know that you're stronger than me; but I hope you wake up one day and realize I stopped loving you before you started. I hope one day you can wash your hands clean ; I hope you realize I never wanted to be the one weighing you down.

I still remember the day you stopped loving me

I woke up to open windows, rain spilling onto the window sill.

I wish it didn't end like this

but its still raining

and I'm still wrapped in these sheets

waiting for myself to drown.

Radical as Shakespeare
Cool as Frost
Spooky as Poe
Cyclic as Lee
Rounded as Austen
Abundant as Brontë

Earnest as Hemmingway

Entering an airplane,
For me,
Is like entering a church,
This sacred place where we sit in pews,
Eyes glued to the incredible,
Action up front,
Yet the view from the window,
As beautiful as the stained glass of the church back home,
Pulls longingly at my attention,
But unlike church,
I truly feel renewed,
When we land and I exit,
The beautiful, sacred plane.

You're strong
you're a cup of coffee
in the morning.
You're rain
pouring
down my window pane

You're sweet
like goodbyes
bitter like
hellos
you're like a secret
everyone knows

you're ambition
and you're mine
but not really
not at all
you're a temporary high
and a constant fall

you're truth
but you lie
you're painful
like kisses
pleasure
like bruises

this could go on
because you're infinity
yet you're limited
you're forever
and yet my friend
you're also the end

They all talk of being born with skin of glass. I live with flesh of stones; no mortar holding together my pieces. One harsh touch to crumbling down into a pile of debris like houses after disaster. Houses that home the bodies of the forgotten. Houses of the people I used to love in a time when  love was something I was capable of doing. A time when blood ran through the veins that are now tangled grape vines. When the boulder in my chest once held the names of people whose lips I've once kissed. I am no longer able to hold people without them being a part of me. Whose heart was made into solid rock and built me. I am made of everyone I have broken. I remember you visited me last year, laying flowers at my feet. Crying, begging me to hold you. Begging me to take the pain away. You traced the lines of my composure, you rested your head against my solid chest. The chest that doesn't contain the resonation of a beating heart. I wanted to tell you I am sorry. I'm sorry for keeping them from you, I'm sorry that their names are etched into me. I'm sorry for being the only reminder of the ones whose absence you feared. I still remember the day the carved each death date into my side, It didn't hurt. Nothing hurts other than seeing your tears that shower onto the flowers that bring beauty to the darkness I am made of. Maybe I'll become numb someday... maybe it'll be the day they carve your death date into my surface; maybe death will look a little more beautiful.

In all honesty I've never been good with words. I never knew what to respond after the doctor would ask me what hurt, or what to tell my mother after I saw her cry when my dad left. Poetry is placing words in all the wrong places in order to build something right. Poetry is taking apart the puzzle and forcing the pieces into spaces they don't fit. I tried to write you a letter to tell you that I miss you, the problem with poetry is that there's no metaphor that makes this emptiness inside my chest any more beautiful. There's no personification real enough to make my sheets feel like you're laying in them. There's no simile literal enough to make my heart feel as though its healing. I wish I could place these words on my tongue and roll them out for you to hear, but since I've last kissed you I can't even find the motivation to part my lips. I always find myself questioning why I keep writing; because the problem with my poems is that you're never the one reading them.