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