He loves me, he loves me not
We're meant to be, or so I thought
My heart is broken, the pain is real
I long for peace, from all I feel

I fake a smile, so no one knows
I mimic strength, lest weakness shows
I refuse surrender, I stand and fight
I must succeed, and so I write

The ink it flows, pours from my pen
It heals my heart, and I can breathe again

Minutes into hours, hours into days
The love I held so tightly, starts to fade away
The pain begins to lessen, the tears no longer fall
Seemed misery was forever but it's not that way at all

Those nights you haunt my dreams
Are now few and far between
When memories overtake me, I know I'll be alright
I know now what to do....and so I write

The ink it flows, pours from my pen
It heals my heart and I can breathe again
Yes, I can breathe again.

do you still read my poetry?
take in every line
search for meaning
and for me
curious what you'll find

do you still think about me?
wonder how i am
read through my rhymes
through my lies
i hope to say you can

do you hate my stupidity?
raging at my hope
seeing my pathetic mess
the ludicrousness
hurt that i won't mope

do you still read my poetry?
get wrapped up in my words
hope to find i'm alright
the truth i hide
is that what i deserve?

do you still read my poetry?
for I still want you to
marvel at the wonders
my little treasures
it's more than you deserve

when you ask me if I'm bored
of listening to your terrible stories,
it makes me think about
what boredom means to me
and why it’s beauty that I find
in apparent mundanity.

you color my life in every tone of grey -
in a nourishing and poetic, underrated way.
GREY - the soul of every color in the world;
Invisible and aligned - right between extremes -
like all well designed things are known to be.

Or maybe because grey
feels like routine,
and you’re the everyday
that's to come and that has been.

you're where I set my bar for normal;
you're my Sunday night pajama informal.

You’re my common sense, and my reality check,
my perspective lens, my goodnight peck.
and even your grim phone voice
and plot less stories on sleepless nights
are part of the palette  I've come to adore,
painting magic in monochrome.

You know what hurts the most?

To be just friend with someone whom you truly love.

as long as a writer is in love with you
you can never truly die

every word they write on paper
will have the whispers from your mouth
and as long as the sounds of the scratching
pencils & the click-clack of keyboards
fill the air
it will follow with the echo of your footsteps
and every line, poem and book
unwritten or unheard of
will have your name written all over it

so fall in love with a writer
because than you'll never truly die

I want to show myself to you

I want you to know me
like nobody knew

I have nothing to win
Nothing to lose

I am a slave of my own rules..

I am an open book yet
If you don't ask questions
The answer will never come

I am the honest you never met before

I am the someone who is daily very high and low

I am a happy personality with a sad soul

I am the strongest and weakest

I am the one who will never show forgiveness

I am a good reader
Desired to be read...

I am who I am

The someone who will stay alone at the end