The darkness of the clouds fit
In her tired eyes but still it lit
Everything that it sees
Beyond failures, there will be good deeds

You will not always hear her say a thing
But her mind doesn’t denotes a dried field in spring
Look at her, she smiled when you threw her fire
She turned it to a stunning  sapphire!

No is her answer to your why
She’s genuine enough to not lie,
Yet wise enough to realize that she never owed
Anyone an explanation for what she sowed

You see black and white
But there are too many colors on her sight
Blended together not to be aesthetically pleasing,
Just enough to give her soul a nice feeling.

I love you.
         On intense days.
            On good days.
                On long
              exhausting
              work  days.
               On  really
             strange  days.

           And most of all
          on days when you
            make me smile,
            which happens
            to be every day
              I'm with you.

               I  love  you
              means that I
             care  enough
               to fight for
             what we have
              and love you
                enough  to
                 not   ever  
                    let   go.
                                                                                                Jon York   2019

I am a writer
I feel a lot too deeply
I take everything personally
I'm more creative than logical
I let my mind spell out the words
The pen is like another part of me
I don't leave without paper
I don't go outside a lot
And if I do it's for inspiration
To write

My mind is a whirlpool
Of feelings and words and thoughts
Every drop a different expression
Every expression a different poem
And every poem a different world
I don't ever turn my brain off
For it's the most important part of me
I can't, and I don't want to

I don't ever stop thinking-
analyzing,
observing,
exploring,
and creating
My brain is composed of worlds
Which I am more present in
Than my own

I'm silent because I'm thinking
I'm day-dreaming whenever
It's taking me time to learn how to trust,
but when I do let someone in
I love them enough
To immortalize them
By writing about them

I'm forgetful
But I remember everything
I'll forget the keys at home
Or the pasta that's cooking
But those are just small things
I remember words
And scents
And looks
And everything in between

All those little things
Make me a writer
And you might think I'm crazy
Always talking and always observing
But it's who I am.

Call me a writer.

I wonder if you ever look back
and see what you created.
You tore me down,
made to barely have any life,
and expected me
to follow your every command.
You knew I was developing,
and made it a mission
for me to develop to your liking.

Since our splitting,
I have sprung into all four seasons,
not even a feather weighing
against me.
I have been smiling larger,
and thinking of ways
I can extend my life,
instead of ending it prematurely.

You're still out there,
and I hope you are well,
but I carry no sympathy
for a person who once
attempted to take advantage of me.

Evert night at 2 AM
Different poems are written
Different words are scribbled
Different papers are crumpled
But only one thought she had
Yet, word can't help her convey the feelings
"Empty" has much more than herself
"Sad" is not sadder than she thought
"Broken" is more whole than her
"Hurting" ain't just bleeding just like her
And when words can't take the role
It's the blade that play with her
Every cuts has meaning
Everything is her unreleased feeling