I've read a lot of romances,

And before I fell asleep,

I would write my myself into the pages, and fall in love with Wesley and Darcy and Aragorn.

She would catch his eye, and he would approach, and they would talk for hours holding hands under the stars.


I would meet people, who I thought I could replace the heros in my stories,
but,
when the part arrived,
where he got down on one knee,

I couldn't imagine it with anyone.

But now,

I see us meeting at the alter,
our house
and our kids.
I see my old hand on your wrinkled face.
Road trips and trips to the store.
and making up after arguing
what movie to watch on a Friday night.


"You know you're in love when reality is better than your dreams"

I think I might understand now.

Because while you're not perfect,
neither am I.

You exceeded all my expectations

Not only did you fulfill everything I'd hoped for,

but you made it better.
Because it's you. And I could never invent the way you surprise me with the way you make me feel.

               I'm excited and unafraid

Of
     the
            possibly
                          of
                                You­

How come when I know that it'll just hurt, I keep on laughing?

How come when I know it will be only a painful memory for me, but keep on smiling?

How come when I know that you will never love me back, I keep on loving you?

Why do I keep on smearing that fake grin on my face, when I know it's not real?

Goofy me and my goofy acts.

Sad. Despair. Pain. Misery. Tears. Cries. Scars. Anger. Broken.

But I keep on laughing.

Haha.

It’s strange.
I want to write elegant poetry
That rhymes
With metaphors
And all the fancy poetic devices

But whenever I start a poem
That I planned on writing
More eloquently
And fancy

It always comes out
Random
Without form
Or anything special

Sometimes I’ll get lucky
And have a few good lines

I used to be annoyed by that
But now
I don’t care
I just want to write my poetry

In this house, ruckus occurred.
the bathroom was filled with tears,
tears from scrapes and cuts and bruises
the kitchen filled with the sound of forks scraping against plates
the bedrooms filled with dog hair
the living room filled with snores from those late nights
the hallway filled with dirt from those muddy days
the bedroom walls filled with posters
the bedroom floors filled with clothes
In this house ruckus occurred
the bathroom was filled with broken glass
the kitchen with cans and jars,
lying still on the floor, covered with dust
the bedrooms remember
the faint memory of boxes and suitcases
the living room filled from the televisions soft glow
a warning broadcasted from above
the hallway filled with clothes pushed to the side
to make room for more
the bedroom walls filled with holes
the bedroom floors filled with blankets and more dust
In this house, ruckus occurred.