To my dear poems,
Although you're close to me, I will no longer strive for perfection with you
For I believe the raw emotions and imperfections make you beautiful and I am too in love with your flaws
The scraps of paper with scribbled words
Coffee stained napkins where sudden inspiration hit
Temporary words on palms
And unlike mine, I love your scars
You let my heart speak without a filter and the more perfection I force upon you by replacing words and rewording my pain,
it becomes nothing more than a never ending game,
making me obsessed about your appearance, I end up with useless words that make not a difference.
So instead of giving you hours, I will give you each a piece of myself and I know it will remain safe with you.
From your imperfect writer

When I was younger, dreams of you haunted me with sickening fire and brutality,
I would wake up with tear streaked cheeks just begging the air that you would visit me
When I grew older, the dreams lessened and a strong ache grew in my chest,
allowing me to breathe less and less until the point where I suffocated with longing for you
And now I am here and instead of a burning ache I get outbursts of fierce intensity, bringing me to the edge of my sanity leaving me weak and broken
So tell me, did it hurt you to be apart from me or was I the only one counting the days

Buzzing, itching, crowded mess.

Pounding, pounding, in my head.

Nothing matters, not anymore.

It never did, never at all.

Slowly sinking, drowning, cold.

I think I'm starting to lose my hold.

My grip on reality is wearing thin.

It's time I let the demons in.