It's a messy Monday morning,
with the blinds still closed to avoid the light.
It's the stumbling out of bed that makes you wonder why you're not dead.
It's the contemplation of existence,
not caring what's next.
Not caring your pay cheque could make a difference,
Not caring you're wearing a brandless tee and certainly not caring about the ******* on TV.

It's rooted from where you came from & why she made it but not you,
How being breathless occupies the entire room.
pacing your palms over your head trying to figure out why you're not dead.
It's a messy Monday morning because you lied to yourself yesterday when you said: "only one drink."
Because you couldn't seem to figure out where things were headed & maybe this time, today would be the end.
It doesn't make sense so it's better to lay in bed.
It's not better but it's easy,
It's easy to believe the monsters in your head are only alive to just be friends or that your nightshift job means more money in the end.
To an end the priests have worked on,
To satisfy believers,
Fulfilling their needs.

It's a Godless world,
It makes no sense.

You see I'm not entirely sure what home feels like,
but when we're sitting together, side by side in nothing but silence,
I begin to slowly understand.

Home is you. Home is a place that brings no judgement, only love.
Home makes you feel okay about being dumped or failing your math test, again.
You've been my home that allows me to live & a home that has managed to teach me about the entire universe.
You've been able to keep me alive by effortlessly loving me, despite my constant moping about.
Your existence alone has given me more reason than ever before & for once, I don't want to give up. Not on me & never on you.

I cannot think of anyone else who deserves to wear that pretty smile each day, carelessly, effortlessly.
& most importantly, I cannot think of anyone else who deserves to be loved,
who deserves to have their tea hot each morning & to have men write bad poetry because no words in the dictionary are worthy of describing your entire being.
You are the mid night poetry at 2am that everyone talks about.
You are the reason we should all have insomnia, because it's a little difficult to fall asleep when fragments of your face & the happiness you shed on us each passing day keeps replaying in our heads.
With a heart of gold, you make people believe in love & all the little things in between.
No,
this is not a poem,
but proof that when my heart beats,
it beats to find its way home.

You keep presenting yourself
walking proudly in this cold & empty room.
I know you don't want to leave,
what are you without me anyway?
You rely on the sickness of my existence,
the alcohol breath that pours out during the weekends & the tobacco stains hidden underneath my fingernails.

I thought that you left me,
but it was then that I truly met you.
You had a name but I failed to acknowledge you.

I met a friend of yours before,
we played a game of Russian Roulette that involved empty stomachs & impulsive work out routines.
He gave me unimaginable power, to lie & cheat.
That's how you won,
by gaining gratification while gazing at your reflection in the mirror. He was persistent.
I tried to let him go,
but he called you.
You must have lost your car keys when fetching him because you're still here.

Now it's 5 years gone,
I still see you,
I still see him.
We're seeing people to prepare me for your future departure,
there's not much out there though so you might as well stay.

You see, some people in this world might not get who she really is,
they fail to see her brave heart & her strong smile she wears everyday, wanting to please. But they don't deserve her anyway.
She effortlessly fills an empty man's soul,
with the look in her eye, a sparkle if you will.
I guess it's the way she attempts to make a joke even though she's not funny.
It's the way she brightens a dull room as she walks in with the cigarette hanging from her cold fingertips.
She makes you wonder, when you listen, to the sound of her voice, trying not to melt in her presence.

She cannot see this world is too good for her,
that she fits perfectly with the angels in the sky.
But she sits with us, the broken.

He asked me why I wasn't dead,
what selfish reason am I alive for anyway?
Thinking my rotting flesh can handle anymore wasted nights or blackened lungs.
Being told of a brighter future, yet my vision is blurred with a fish eyed lense and the way forward only sinks me deeper into its hell.
This hell, it burns me.
I feel it twisting my veins,
tightening my chest and wishing for death.
It brings pulpitations to my already cracked heart, as it creeps through the cracks which fill me with a roaring flame that doesn't bring the heat that might warm up a happy family on Christmas night. It is the burnt out ashes when they've all gone to bed and the gift wrappers left shredded at my feet..

Stagnant for almost ages,
a shift in the universe creating cracks at the core.
It's just change they say,
progress feeding life until it's bloated and now it's heavy.
Why ruin a good thing?
A journey they say,
forgetting to mention the skepticism & uncertainty in between, the back and forth. Left right, left right.
It's not comfortable,
there was a home.
A beacon of safety when entering the door,
laying in a bed surrounded by the diffused atmosphere of who you once were and now.
Why ruin a good thing?
Now it's time to find an opening inside uncomfort, where you might fit best so that you're warm every night.

But these are just words that diffuse in the air, their soft tone can fit through the walls & their lack of stability can break down a tower made from hope.
I gave them to you and you swallowed them like candy- a temporary satisfaction that tasted like freedom & long nights away.
These were just words that gave birth to a physical form with no soul.
These were just words I convinced myself I said when you recall nothing of the sort and tell me I lied.
Now I remember you're gone,
when you told me my hands belong in my pocket rather than around you.
When a day passed, then the next. When i saw my reflection in your silence. This was me and I know, that I should have stayed after you kissed me goodbye.

I'm screaming your name but you'll never hear me,
when the tears fell onto the pillow that is now water resistant.
I wake up embarrassed because the stain on my sheets was me thinking about you.
It was me collapsing for a minute, or two.
My eyes will never see you again,
my memory only knows your name.

So tonight I thought of you,
I thought about the feeling of staring into your eyes, the way they're often staring back at mine.
I thought about the way you wear your smile & how sweet the sound of your laugh sounds.

Somehow you've managed to sneak past the cracks & laid rest in my head.
A place now long closed off & too dark for visitors.
& somehow I couldn't stop smiling,
realising that you were the influence,
giving me reason,
reason to be less afraid.

I guess it's the way you shut off the world as you fixate yourself in the books you read,
the way your body curls up into mine because you don't like it when movie scenes get too intense,
how smooth your hands feel as they trace over my skin, or your soft lips when I press them against mine.

I feel a part of you pouring out of me in all these lines,
I feel you staring at me when I close my eyes.


You've managed to replace my drunken weekends,
reminding me that there was more to life than staring into an empty beer glass.
Thank you.
I'm falling for you,
I wish you knew, but I guess this is why you're reading this.
You often tell me I'm quite,
but here are all my unspoken words for all  the times you caught me staring at you
'cause I sit next to you, rendered speechless,
Wondering where the smooth talker went to.

It's said that 3am is really the time for the poets who've lost their lovers,
or for the artist looking for reason within the shapes he creates to bring back the memory.
These memories awaken in the darkness & pick up the broken pieces of the soul from the floor,
sharpening the edges so to cut deep in the flesh, making sure its presence is forever known.
These memories pretend to make coffee again, and sit as we stare into her eyes between the smokey haze rising from the mug.
They made us smile as we watched our happiness slip away,
and left in black.

This keeps the poets awake because the ink won't spill the secrets.
This keeps the artist awake because the brush hurts when he is forced to re-create the outline of her gentle face, the way her hair fell off her shoulders, why his canvas remains blank.