and i ache just thinking about it
all those times i needed you and you walked right out the door.
all the soft and tender midnight words i dreamed you had whispered in my ears that were soon replaced with cold lifeless ones.

and i ache

i ache for all the times my heart skipped a beat just to get thrown down the stairs

i ache remembering all those nights that i would lie awake
    alone.
right next to you.

        begging
to be touched
to be looked at
to be held
to be seen
to be felt
in all the throbbing places
inside of
    me
just one little kiss
one kind word
a moment of softness
   some sort of mercy


and i ache. i shiver and shake

        i cry and wonder when i’ll get a break

i cry and wonder when i’ll get a break.

You are more
Beautiful
More brilliant
Reminiscent of stars
And librarians
With their glasses
Hooked on strings

And yet I am
Here
Wait for you
To notice me
To find me
To love
Something
About me

And you speak to me
And post your
Little
Self deprecating
Harmful
Hurtful
Thoughts
Of how you’re
Unloved and alone

The room
You’ve locked yourself
In
Is shut
Unopened
Do not disturb
With walls lined
In black

But with
The light off
And your hands
Over your
Beautiful
Wide
Tear-filled eyes
You fail
To see me
Wanting to
Love you

What would it take to get on that level?
I've done so much.
Been there.
I'd do anything.
And all I want in return is to be thought of,
To be on that level, too.
And to not be taken for granted, ever.

I must say
those of arts
writers and painters
so often trivialized
too often

how ironic then
for those who sweep us under
since we--
of words and lines
however similar or not
--are not the ones at expense.

Where's the magic
neither seen nor experienced
in reality,

and where's the escape
from your homes of present
but from us?
the minds who labor away
without showing
but upon the page, sheet or canvas.