Too much trauma
The brain needs a rest
Who cares
Too much of everything
To sleep with no interference
In isolated solitude
A moment of no spoken word
Curtains drawn
Darkened room
My room of gloom
Devoid of thought
No telephone to insensitively pierce the silence
No one to enter the room uninvited
Utter words of razor
Cutting into you
Into your very soul
A hellish insensitive voice
The one that could make you ****
Feel no shame
Carry no blame
Then go back to sleep

My mind
it races
with thoughts
of you.

My heart's
quickened pace
in reaction
to you.

My hands
yearn to
touch your
own hands.

My lips
they long
to kiss
your cheek.

My body
gets nervous
pressing against
your body.

My cheeks
turn red
when you
love me.

Her actions were true,
Her motives were few.
But she never stopped,
Cause she always knew.

Someone told her she was beautiful,
Glowing with personality.
But she didn’t feel that way,
Not in her reality.

Her Destiny was clear,
When she entered the room,
It filled her lungs,
It happened so soon.

His eyes still glowed,
Though cloudy and weak.
She could smell his smoke,
Through the magic unseen.

They all called her Destiny,
For the stars in her eyes.
From the time that you see,
Till the day that you die.

And she began to wonder if it is the coffee she had
that keeps her up all night
or all the thoughts she chose to keep inside

I often see poems that go by "untitled".
Some may even refer their poems as "Untitled" with capitalized importance.
"Untitled" is not to be, nor should it be, mistaken for "unimportant".
The work is still in process.
It has importance.

I often write poems that go by titles.
Some may even say that my poems are "Unoriginal" with cliche names.
"Unoriginal" is not to be, nor should it be, mistaken for "unintentional".
The work went through the process.
It has intention.

I often read poems because of their titles.
Some may even claim that their poems are "Profound" with unlimited potential.
"Profound" is not to be, now should it be, mistaken for "invaluable".
The work is still processing.
Its value has yet to be seen.

i thought you were as gentle as the flower on my windowsill
instead, you were a double sided blade piercing my skin
and you didn't even know
my name