Why must your youness be so
Impeccably imperfect,
That I cannot write you justice;
Cannot conjure even a shell of you.

Ever the joker you dance
At the edges of my vision;
Remain uncapturable yet unforgettable,
As I feverishly, fervently fail to
Sketch the shape of you.
My love,
I would slit my wrists with a ballpoint pen,
If only the ink ran a truer colour of you.

Rivers stain paper and corners curl crisp;
My pen runs dry over and over.

i slice my heart with strokes of pen;
blood flows as ink onto the page.
when i share my writings with my friends
they hold my life force in their hands.

now
words only sputter and spurt;
suddenly it hurts to hurt.
writing exhausts and reading consumes
over my head numbness looms.
words ought to follow each place i go
yet now i find them falling short.
i'm clinging to Your rays of light
fighting paralysis, reaching for Sight.

My body had withered in pain
Heart's totally becoming fragile.
Thoughts of you make me insane
Your pseudo kisses made me ill.

I desired for nothing but you
Hence, your eyes are pretentious.
I assumed you were never true
That your stare was truly devious.

Whenever I ask you about something
Your mouth is speaking skeptically.
Your words mean nothing
And you're pretending, undoubtedly.

I wanted to divulge the unfaithfulness
That runs through your soul.
Forsooth, I won't be restless
Being despaired was my only role.

Distance me from this nightmare
And let me be alone for tonight.
This agony I can no longer bear
Falling for an enemy was never right.

if love is abandoning my writing because i don't know where all the pain went
perhaps this is love
if love is laying awake fighting the melatonin with methylfolate in your smile
perhaps this is love
if love is slamming doors and being unable to feel anything but you
perhaps this is love
if you could call redownloading the happy songs on my playlist and in my head "love"
perhaps you're right
i am too adolescental to know
all i know is that i have not felt passion like his touch since i can remember
he makes me numb and yet i feel everything at once
how dare he
he is the reason i lose sleep and my parents lose patience
how dare he
he is the reason i am allowing myself to feel things and not force poetry out like a dying fruit to the thirsty
but sometimes it flows on its own
how dare he
to bring my mind away from all ive ever known and all ive ever felt and refuse to call me his own
i have never wanted to be own
if love is the phrase "there's a first time for everything,"
perhaps this is love after all

Sometimes you sit down
and nothing ever comes

Sometimes you pick up the pen
and ink just pool in one spot

Other times you write possessed
with a need to get it all out
onto the page and out of your mind

Other times a ghost writer
gives you their thoughts
and inspires every page

This dull pencil has filled me with lead and weighed down my soul

This canvas is blank
Save for the bruised marks of an angry quill

I shake as hard as I can
But the pen has fallen to the might of frustration

I am but a broken type writer