days i have delayed
i've been under the shade
    for i cannot bear to speak
                                 to you.

ambiguous blots of ink
forming dangerous thoughts to think-
    will surely be reason for death
                                        for me.

who am i again(?)
just a girl with a pen-
    and words that can only cushion my fall
                                                            my crash.

conspiracy, i cause
propaganda, they pose
                                               posters, they stick
                                                                                and poems, i smack

find me in the corner
sipping my bitter capp
dreaming of paper
and ink
and y
         o
            u

hold my hand,
and pull me tight.

for i am too tired to speak;
tonight.

trip me up,
and make me laugh.

for i am too sad to cry;
tonight.

pour me a glass of juice,
and pretend it's wine.

for i am too sick to get drunk;
tonight.

sing to me a lovers' song,
and ask me to dance.

for i am out of ideas;
tonight.

bake me a cake,
and sprinkle some love.

for i am craving lots;
tonight.

make me a bracelet,
of old charms and beads.

for i am in need of luck;
tonight.

tuck me in bed,
and read me a story.

for i will be restless;
tonight.

dim the light,
and keep the door open.

for i might awake with a fright;
tonight.

open your letter,
and read it slow.

for i cannot say these words;
tonight.

Honey,
You were the One.
A savior of sorts.
I cannot thank you.
I cannot love you any more than I do.
Be brave, if not for me, for you.
Take care of yourself, as I know you will.
Signed,
Your Beloved.

promise me you won't cry,
and promise me you'll make it.

for i am dead;
tonight.

prickly vibes climb the ceiling
of the attic you weep
in,
      the comforts of your worn-out bed;
                                                        stained blood-red.

it's awfully cold
for a typically sluggish winter
day-,
             by-day you still don't learn;
                                                  of no return.

staring at the mirror you see
it is not sadness you suffer from
but,
        a full-blown catastrophe;
                                         permanent detainee.

you sob for weeks but no-one hears
the screams dance off walls and doors
begging,
             for mercy or an escape;
                                          man-in-cape.

y­ou've done nothing but lead
a dull life and now you wait
distressed,
            with empty hopes for a rescue;
                                                     past overdue.

it's hard to say what went wrong
and easier to say what went right
despite,
            you dying and all;
                                  *poor soul.

Woke up this morning with an itch to write,
To put pen to paper,
To put height to flight.

Broken words for the good mans' soul,
I write to feel happy,
I write to feel whole.

Like an anxious athlete on a trendy diet,
I weigh-in to reflect.
I weigh-in to free an internal quiet.

Similar to an artist using brushes and paints,
I draw a paradise with fire,
I draw a hell with saints.

Feelings twist my fingers and toes,
Force me to write of worries,
Force me to write about woes.

These words are like screams,
They are my pain,
They are my extremes.

To think I only write of distress is utterly depressing,
There is also beauty in the world,
There is a myriad of issues far more pressing.

Yet given the chance I would write my worries away,
Save me another hour,
Save me another day.

I would wish for an eternity of bliss,
For everlasting love,
For time's abyss.

I could write about cities,
Filled with people and cars,
Filled with ruins and pities.

I'll sew you a quilt of all my fears,
Hoping no one realizes,
Hoping no one hears.

With this quilt I'd make my bed,
Rest on it with fluttery thoughts,
Rest on it with a heavy head.

And on it I'd cuddle with the quilt,
Wish away all the bad,
Wish away all the guilt.

For I know I could write for a hundred years straight,
Still have those debts,
Still have a tarnished slate.