Even though every thought in its entirety eventually wears me down....
I could never entice myself into ever letting you go.

Don't deny your desperation for me, darling.
Don't you think it's decent of me to decry you of your dire need in return?

You couldn't conceive
How careless you come off
When I'm crying for attention
But you can't reciprocate.....
Priorities.

Basically, I was born to be yours.
Babe, don't be a stranger.........

Absolutely no way around it anymore.....
What if I told you I loved you?

Do you have any idea what I go through?
You don't, and I
know you don't, because I never tell you.

Ever wondered why?

I have what seems like a million stacks
of paper pressing on my chest, and
all the ****** memorised facts
are fighting in my head, compressed, I
feel a bit dead. What this person said, what
that person said, my eyes aren't green
anymore, they're red,
and yellow,
and pink,
a highlighters tint tattooed into
my neural net, yet I don't feel
confident enough to bet it won't
wash off.
Yet each morning I still
brush off my shroud of too
little sleep, because I can't fall asleep
when I'm alone and when I'm sad I
moan to shadowy paving stones, as I
walk a march to the station to
and fro, and I secretly wonder, "does
it even matter where I go?", and every day
I'm just that little bit more slow, still keep
counting chances in my head, but when I
dance my heart can still
hear the lead I left at the
side, which resides with me
now.
I fall asleep on textbooks and
I wonder how this
became the focal point of
my existence, every now and
then it meets my resistance but
every time I squash it down, I wish
I dreamed of the crown of
innocence that once brushed upon
my head, but now I feel I'm guilty
instead, because every smile
is a second wasted. Instead I
dream of
paper,
and death,
and funerals.
And I watch as the
ones I love are lost, I
can't remember the
last time one of my dreams
was soft.
I can't remember.
This sacrifice isn't small, I haven't
actually listed much of my fall, but the
tallest order of all isn't even the
grades I must get if I can
finally submit to the
fact that I might be
worth it.
I'm leaving the first person I
have ever romantically loved
to do so, and just the idea
bruises my bones,
because, at the same time
as being miserable, mad, and
sad,
he has helped me be the most
happy, no more, filled, complete,
as I have ever been.
I have thrown my soul at
his feet, and he has
kissed it.
And if I leave him, I will miss
it, a part of me I finally found, will
resound like a long forgotten
tune, my new found flower
unknowing where to bloom.
He has not made it easy, I have
watched him torture, hate, and cry
to himself, I have watched him
wish himself past help.

I will always have her, nothing
can ever take her, she
is me.

But he,
he makes me fear the breeze.

I love you too, but if you think you
see a brick wall then you obviously
haven't looked to see how tall
it is,
I've run out of bricks.
All that are left are sticks,
feel free to scratch in an "You
owe me" but, you see, my perceived
"cracks" have triumphed, I'm
sorry to be the bearer of true news.
I'm sorry I can't sit up with you,
I have in the past.
I'm sorry I can't right now panic for you,
I have in the past.
I'm sorry I can't listen right now,
but I have,
multiple times in the past.

So leave a message after the
tone, and I'll get back to you
when you want a wall to moan at.

Maybe I'll chuck you a brick?

(p.s sorry if this was too "emotionless")

Fall in love with yourself.

Learn how to be infatuated
with the veins in your hands
and the stretchmarks on your tummy.
Make your own heart race
as you whisper those
three words,
eight letters
to yourself
over and over again.

I love you.
I love you.
I love you.

And mean it.

If you can learn how to
profess your undying love
to the naked, scared figure
in the mirror,
you can learn how to
daydream about a future
where you
and that person
are finally happy.

If you can give
a piece of your heart
to that stranger on the bus,
why can't you give everything
back to yourself?

You,
who picked your broken self up
after dropping to your knees
one too many times.

You,
who dragged your ***
to the toilet
after drinking the night away
(even though you promised
that you wouldn't do it again).

You,*
who wasn't always there,
but tried to make it up to yourself
by covering your wounds
with purple plasters
and starlight.

Because when people
turn out their pockets
with no spare love
to hand to you,
you will stuff your hands into yours
and give them some of your own
without ever running out of supply.

My poems are sad, yet they make me glad, they bring me joy. I mock you and your actions and it makes me content, with how you left. Broken down, in my weakest state you sent me the pictures, revealed your true face. Blame myself, but truly it's you, wish for the best for the pair of you.