this void i am made of
disintegrates
when i look into your eyes
and your hand touches mine

(cjw)

i've been sleeping with skeletons again lately
and drenching myself in purfume
so no one can smell my dead passion or the inspiration i always seem to lose

i keep hearing what you said and
i'm hearing dead poems being recited in my head again and i know my words will outlive me like they outlived you and that keeps me company

i've been writing things that don't make sense and sitting outside burning books again

i've been sleeping with skeletons
again
they tell me not to write these things down again

(cjw)

i guess i make it too obvious
i don't want to talk about things
because since i turned sixteen
you haven't asked me how i feel
or how my day was
but i guess that's okay
because i was always the one drowning
and you were always the one
yelling at me to "just swim"

loving you was the
most beautiful form of
self-destruction.

Everyone is in a mood
Happier when unhappy
At home in wistful, lamenting desire
Everyone is emotional
Though we truly are emotion
Everyone has a reason
To feel what they feel
And some of us
Feel what we feel
Feel what they feel
Feel what we would feel
Feel what they should feel
Feel what we want them to feel
It is those of us who can feel to the extreme
Who can fill up a universe with tears, bleeding hearts, and love
Yes, it is the few who can find the beauty in pain
The joy in sadness
The comfort in the last wistful breeze of the season
The rare few who are gifted with depth of emotion
It is those who we call poets