Hickeys are the paradox of love,
what usually comes from violence comes from passion,
scratches on  backs,
and bruises on my neck,
they are all paradoxes,
the pain that usually comes from that is silenced by the bliss of lust

Find a beautiful piece of art. If you fall in love with Van Gogh or Matisse or John Oliver Killens, or if you fall love with the music of Coltrane, the music of Aretha Franklin, or the music of Chopin - find some beautiful art and admire it, and realize that that was created by human beings just like you, no more human, no less.

3:11 am / The 23rd of May

I don’t remember the exact moment I realized I had fallen in love with you.

But I just remember holding your hand under the stars and realizing how much it was going to hurt when I would have to let it go.

Lorsque vous me demandiez
Si je voulais écrire pour vous ,
Je ris , et répondu .
" Je ne suis même pas écrire pour moi-même ,
Je ne vous écris pas du tout vraiment,
Je suis juste un navire ,
la poésie m'a écrit
et coule à travers moi ,
sans cesse ,
pour l'ensemble du monde à voir





When you asked me
If I would write for you,
I laughed, and answered.
"I don’t even write for myself,
I don’t write at all really,
I am just a vessel,
poetry writes me
and flows through me,
endlessly,
for all of the world to see

I’ve never been able to convince myself that I’m anything special, and I really don’t mean that in a self-pitying-please-compliment-me-and-tell-me-of-my-importance way, I mean that in a I really honestly don’t see why anybody would do anything differently on my behalf. What about me could possibly make you want to be better? But that was what he always said. he loved me, he loved me, he loved me, I made him want to be better. My inability to believe that ****** with my head and our relationship in more ways than one. First off, I believed him when he said he loved me. I got that he did, I could see it in his actions and the way he would react to what I would say and do. If I’m being honest I could see it on his face, and that terrified me. It wasn’t that I didn’t think the love was there, it was that I didn’t understand why it was. Since I could never recognize anything important in myself, since nobody had really ever recognized anything important in me, the fact that all of the sudden a person so raw, so precious, was standing in front of me with tears in his eyes and his heart in his hands, trying to hand it to me, didn’t click in my head. It just didn’t work. Why do you love me so much? And since I can’t see your reasoning, since I can’t understand it, does that mean one day its going to just disappear? Because at this point, I believed him.  I believed everything he ever said to me. I think ultimately I was just really scared of regretting that, the trust I was putting in him. I whine a lot about having some crazy trust issues but at the end of the day I’ll put trust in anybody who asks for it, and then when they betray that and somebody else comes along and sings me a song about being different, I’ll believe them. I always have to see the best in people, no matter what happens, and I’m pretty terrified that one day that will be my downfall.

i think hickies are beautiful

love-bites and temporary marks

the thought of someone leaving one

on your skin if rather beautiful

a little piece of them left behind

a reminder that they were there

a reminder that

that beautiful moment
happened.

Soupy slurred words slide from her lips and drip to the floor,
Mixing in with the pool of regurgitated gin and tonic.
Her mouth is bitter but her thoughts are true;
Only the drunk can tell the truth.
Her incoherent words fall to the floor followed closely by her slouched figure and salty tears.
She sleeps on the bathroom floor,
Soaked in the mess she's created.

Maybe we’ll meet again, when we are slightly older and our minds less hectic, and I’ll be right for you and you’ll be right for me. But right now, I am chaos to your thoughts and you are poison to my heart

i know how it works-

my eyes will burn into the sacred light and
drip tears like the Holy candle on the altar

my hand will grip my other so tight
i'll wonder if i'm actually trying to hold onto faith-
Godly faith

my lips become red and cold
like i'm kissing the holy grail
only it's cupped with holy ice

my throat starts to become dry and i wish
i could drink all the wine He gave
to be drunk
so i could forget about you

my chest caves in on its self  like it's
an ancient religious pagan dome

my ears start to ring
i'll block out you're voice in my head
like the bells before communion, like a priest's sermon

i get scared though that He won't help me if i think like this-
deadly mortal sin at it's finest-

i focus my mind again to pray
hoping somewhere along the line
He'll give you to me

He doesn’t write poems but you hope he loves you like you love poems one you hope he see you like a symphony, like a sculpture, like paint or clay, like something he can get his hands on. you hope hes painting you in colors that dont even exist just so he can give them a name. you hope he see you like every sunset he has ever missed. you dont understand the way he thinks but you hope he thinks of you often.. i hope you think of me as art something not  known in your mind but something so grand in mine , your  mind consumed of hip hop mine consumed of ideological things , It's easy to like how his voice is unique in the most uncomfortable way possible or how everything is uncomfortable to me his kiss was of gold Staining my neck with the mark  of innocence lost , of course lost far before he was in the picture , forever is a big word and love is a long time Lets write ourselves a poem I lose myself in words  , often more often then anyone wants I don't understand the word ‘love’ because when I was 13 years old I was forced to believe in it as people you learn to trust ******* in the most literal sense but in you I see colors ive never seen before something that makes me happy yet so ******* sad to know I have emotions left when ive tried and tried to just not feel anymore  everyone always talks about people leaving, but it seems like I'm the one who leaves with an inability to handle disappointment but with you I see something far more different

Sometimes its agitating having the standards I have. I want to be with an artist. I want to be sketched in an old journal and get photographed in black and white. I want to be turned into metaphors and be someones muse. I’m so used to being the one spending hours writing poetry about boys who don’t love me back and one day I want to fall in love with someone that shows me the same kind of love I give to them. I want someone to write about me, someone to make me theirs and only theirs.

please don’t fall in love with me.
i’ll write about the way your collar bones curve and the way your lip trembles when you’re upset. i’ll focus more on the way you twiddle your thumbs counter clockwise rather than the words slipping from your mouth. i’ll remember your favorite song and listen to it on repeat until the lyrics are engraved into the crevasses of my brain, but i’ll forget why you prefer coffee over tea. please don’t fall in love with me because once you realize i’m not good enough, i’ll write about you until my palms bleed and my bones begin to ache to serve as a reminder that i should’ve tried harder to make you stay. i should’ve focused more on the feeling i got when you held me rather than how many ******* freckles you had on your arms. i shouldve woken you up to a fresh cup of coffee, not tea.

He tossed her a rose,
and she let it slip.
Like their love, it was fast,
and died too quick.

Can you see the water dripping from your mother's mouth?  
It's been giving you life since before your father ever took a sip.
And at times, it scorches the prints right off your fingertips but you still have the same blood.
This same blood, which mixes with the water dripping from your own mouth, turns to wine as your lover grazes each corner of the lips that always turn down.
And as they purse into the softest circle, you remember the way your mother smiled with her mouth, full.

Isn’t it crazy how you could miss a place more than you miss a person? im not sure exactly where this place is , it may very well be your arms but i know one thing for sure its the same person that held your very hand walking down that same street. That spun you around, that kissed you in front of passing strangers. That looked you in the eyes and told you they love you and for that split second you began to believe it? That same person that keeps your mind awake at 4 am while you write about the way your jaw clenches and your finger tips start to tremble just when you hear their name slip from someones mouth. I began to feel sorry for myself because how could I be so cruel to miss the place you would rest your hand on my knee rather than the feeling of my heart pacing faster and faster the closer you got to my thigh? But a place can’t hurt me. A place can’t make me feel like their “one and only” yet when midnight rolls around they’re telling another girl how **** she looks with her hair down. A place can’t make every vein in my wrists go cold at the thought of you with someone else. A place can’t hurt me. But you can, you will, and you did.

Do I love him or let him go?
Only time will let me know


Leave and start anew
Or make what we share burn passionately once more

My biggest mistake
Or greatest discovery?
I'm not happy anymore

I'm not sure what to do

Please hold me close
Drown out my thoughts with your love
Make me curious and spark my interests

6/19/16 12:00 AM
I never understood the term falling out of love, how you can possibly stop loving someone you once would have chosen over life itself. I never understood when he stood in front of me and gave the speech only seen in movies.
"It isn't you its me, I'm just not in love anymore. I fell out of it. You're great really, I just can't."
It's been the phrase used by cowards and the one that no one could ever make sound heartfelt but now I'm sitting in front of you picking apart the words so many have used on people and trying to determine how to say them to you without hurting so much. How to tell you I no longer stop breathing when I look into your eyes and how to tell you that I no longer go to sleep at a reasonable time because I can't wait to wake up next to you.
This thing only seen in movies has now destroyed my life in both ways
And I can't decide which way is worse.

People are poems. Beautifully written, wonderfully designed; marvelous works of art.
People are written with starlight and wonder, with verses of beauty written across their hearts.
people are walking rhymes,  walking wonders, sometimes you will never understand or find out  walking words that tell , stories of freedom and redemption sadness and love but that’s what we call life isn’t it ?
People are poetry, people are songs, and people are melodies that are sung on
Bright summer days in a car with the windows down.
People are the words of grace, they are the words unforgotten, and people are words that remain unknown.