Turn me over like your favourite novel.
Run your fingers along my spine.
Bite your lip at your favourite parts
Then read between my lines.

You're a shovel.
Digging a deep hole in my chest.

I can feel my every breath
whirling around with no way out.

Make it stop.

For those who don't like poetry,
Think it's just words jumbled in.
You're only reading
The first layer, the skin.

Take some time to understand
That our heart and souls
Are engraved into every word,
Poems are our crown jewels

You may have a passion for sport
Or even racing cars.
I hope your catching my drift
For we all look to the stars.

Try digging to the deeper layers,
You might find yourself gliding
Across plains or an ocean,
But no matter what I'll continue writing

It's been 2 years
since we've stopped speaking
to each other
like it's all that's left to do

104 weeks
since I knew how I felt about you

730 days
since I thought about
never telling you how I felt

1051200 minutes
that were spent
on dwelling for what was
than acting for what could have been

63072000 seconds have passed
realizing nights are never long enough
to make myself realize that --
yes, I am through with you
because in the morning
when I wake up,
I'm hoping again

Two years -- and a glance my way
and I've figured that the only reason for the hollow in my chest
is because two brave years ago, I've decided to give you my heart
in the hopes of you doing the same, but what you did was take it in your hand and break it as she held your other

Oh, I'd been better dying,
  Oh, I was slow and sad;
A fool I was, a-crying
  About a cruel lad!

But there was one that found me,
  That wept to see me weep,
And had his arm around me,
  And gave me words to keep.

And I'd be better dying,
  And I am slow and sad;
A fool I am, a-crying
  About a tender lad!

It's never quite right,
the way I feel upon waking.

It's never quite right,
at night when its time to sleep.

It’s a vicious cycle of dependence on
whatever the moment requires.

10 mg of this, 20 mg of that , 
  
my see-saw bloodstream
keeps me constantly in need
of something.

     It's like having Phantom Limb Syndrome,
      except you can't figure out
      which limb is missing.

          It's like driving a car on ice,
           constantly slipping and
           over correcting.

               It's like having PTSD,
                only the triggering incident
                hasn’t happened yet.

                    It's like mixing
                     red and blue paint,
                     in the end its always purple.


What’s left is a life of constant searching and
the frustrating inability to drive between the lines.

A life filled with debilitating fear and
an ever present sense of impending doom.

A lifetime sentence

in a land of purple fog nothingness.