Broken conversations,
empty lungs,
doors half open,
hearts almost out of love.

We used to talk of how
we used to be infinite.
But now every second now feels
like a stroke against an unforgiving current.

Our conversations broke
as the flaws of our souls
fell through the cracks of this glass foundation.

These upset words that escaped you
left the air around me a little sad,
a little awake,
and with a lot of echoes.

My lungs went empty
talking you down.

I left the door open for you.
So you can walk in
and slip in quietly-
I won't say a word.

And this heart could never go empty,
not mine.
Yours,
at this point,
I know not.

Flowers never lost their color
as long as you walked this earth.

It must be very ******* her

the bird she cared deeply loved
has found a new pasture.

*but be my dear once a bird
grow on you a wing
know the ache hurts so hard
when stuck within iron ring!

tended well fed the best
the wings still must try
still must deem it a complete waste
times spent flightlessly dry!

I must confess
As I undress
The sins I carry
I cannot bury

They haunt in the night
And even in the light
They follow close
But never are they seen

Save for me in my nightmares
And every time between

Will they ever leave me
There's only one who can say
I'm hopeful To meet him
On my last day

My mind ebbs and flows
Like the perpetual tide
Sometimes towards darkness
Sometimes towards light

Where it lies now
That I don't know
maybe I will
with the dawn of tomorrow.

Writers lie
we create works of fiction and we pour our souls into it.
It's no wonder that we lie.
About the silliest things.
I can't stop it.
I am so passionate.
About everything.
Maybe
that contributes too.
But I don't know.
I like to blame it on
being a
writer.