(I)

Whose coat is this? Sure as hell isn't my coat. I ain't got no coat with this parka ****, it's *******. I ain't no furry flamin' ******. I ain't no ****** chochy Molly-May-Ze-**** chokin' down chickens and nasalin' a'sniffin' snortin' nasty-*** choch; that ain't me. That ain't me. Look at this coat– I'm like an Eskimo *****. I'm like a butch-**** bull-**** crotch-lappin' a'swimmin' laps in that guy's swimmin' pool. Who's that guy? Who owns that guy? 'Ey, anyone here the owner of this guy– guy ain't got no owner? Whose coat is this? It's nice, real nice. Bet she said, "Does it come from France? Where do I buy one?" I want to buy one, I think I need to buy **** more. I sure as hell need to buy one of these. "And I need one these too and one of them too and I need a petticoat and a tipper-tapper and a whimpratic garfielder and one of them new bartlemores, I need more of them bartlemores. I need more, more, more, more, more, more..." That ain't enough. ****'s from France. ****'s from Paris, that's romantic. You think I'm romantic? I eat hearts for dinner, I chew down nails like nuts for my midnight snack. I smoke cigarettes and spit on concrete slabs, you think that's ****? I'll show you ****. I'll show you Paris, New York City, Rome, romance you in Rome. I'll get real ******' Roman. I'll take you to the desert and make love to you. That's how a free man does a woman, and I'm a real free man. Who's ownin' this guy? It ain't you, it ain't me. I don't own you, you don't own me. I'm a free man:

I said,
"Fire and wood, fire and wood, fire and wood. It is late, it is late, it is far, far too late."

I set
fire to wood, fire to wood; feel that fire fired fresh from that firewood.

I dug the pit,
he gathered the wood,
she started the fire.

She really does make that fire start.

O' how she makes that fire burn,
O' how the wood's wrapped in white hots,
O' how they smoke their smokestacked pipes,
O' tobacco teeming teenagers, tormented by and through youth,
O' adolescence, trending topics, and forget-me-not flowers,
O' old age, Floridan coffins, and coughing  cancers,
O' writers in the mountains writing to be,
O' painters and **** bodies in studies by the sea,
O' thinkers in their mindset, mindsetting the table for dinner,
O' tables set to bursting,
O' wallets so thick,
O' community,
O' society, our social games,
O' hope,
O' peace,
O' that I may be at peace,
O' that I may be content and pray only for peace,
O' how about them true believers,
O' how about that love at first sight,
O' sandstone. My sandstone. That guy sittin' on sandstone.

That's my guy. That's my guy. I own this ****.

Is a man breathing on a mirror the sum of his breaths?
Breaths foggin' a'mistin' my view,
my view of a body and that face,
you're a body.
You're a workin' day's bell,
you're my chill in an Icelandic draft,
you're my spare in a Middle Eastern draft,
you're my pawn in chest-to-chest chess.

You've got this. You've got this. You own this ****.

And it is ****, too. I'd be set, real ******' set, with someone like you. I'll make you a woman, check this parka ****. Coat's mine. I'm a classy igloo runner, runnin' a'ragin' a'czebelskiin' meriteratin', I'll be reiteratin' your points. Check the time, it's late! It's late! ***** was in the grassy knoll turnin' trap tunes on her turntable. Would you listen to that? She sounds late to me, does she sound late to you? I like the music; I like the music. What happened to Woodstock? Where's my watergate, Nixon? Where's my generation, Ginsberg? Where's the meaning? This music's too loud! We're so profound! O' profundity!

Tell me something I didn't know, I'm craving' the new.
Give me the new while I spit on the old,
while I spit on this fine art finely art'd by and for fine artists–
******' fine artists. ******* fine artists.

(You can realize radical-realist realism but you can't be real with me?)

O' fine art!
What fine art!
Which fine artists are dead?



(II)

Looks like they're dead.

Looks like them ******* choked out all them ghettos, choked out all them rednecks, chokin' a'stranglin' by-God-oh-God straddlin' the breeders. I sure did like them babes– babes with their laughin' a'lackin' o' cynicism. They don't know the word "****."

I sure am forgetful–
I forgot that smoke doesn't dissipate,
I forgot how to smell autumn leaves,
I forgot to check the heart against the fingertips,
I forgot why my fingertips went numb,
I forgot to cue in the meaning when the sentence was complete,
I forget to complete my sentences,
I forget who you were wanting when you said, "I want you."

I got as much depth as an in-depth discussion, high hats and electropercussion have got me going. I'm goin' downtown, uptown bourgeois tricked me out, johns and yellow Hummers laid me down and cussed me out. That's not a discussion. That's not my scent scenting my towel, this breath reeks of wintry air– my fingertips went numb.

"I want you."

"Oh would you look at that moon?
Take a look at that moon.
Look at that moon with the ******' mountains.
I love that moon.
That's my moon."

I love darin' a'dusty dareelin' derailin' your dreams, whose dreams are these? They ain't my dreams– ain't no dream derailin' a'nileerad radiatiatin' some hint of joy or Jamison Scotch Liqueur. Drink that ****. That's my ****, I own that ****.
I'm sittin' on this stoop like I own this ****, like this **** owns me; I owed me. I don't own me, you owe me:

Pay up man, feet off the stoop.
Pay up man, be real with me.
Pay up man, you ever thought of a man as a man?
Pay up man, give it in.
Pay up man, give in.
Pay up man, I need you to do me a solid. Do me solid from crown-to-toe, we're toe-to-toe let's do-si-do bro-to-** I'm ready go, **, jo, ko, lo, get low… Now I'm ramblin'. You say, "Ramble in to the stoop and tell me a story."

What's a stoop– who's a stoop? That **** ain't stoop– you ain't stoop. You're stupid. You're a joke, check out the joke. Hey ladies, you seen this joke– joke ain't been seen by them ladies? I'm a joke. We ain't laughin' with you, they're laughin' at you.

O' hilarity!
Such hilarity!
What hilarious histories have passed?



(III)*

"I said I loved him once. I only loved him once."
(And how long once has been...)

I sure did like them hand-holdins,
them star-gazin' moments,
them moon phasin' nighttime nuances,
them fingertip feelin' a'findin',
them sessions o'meshin' limber legs unto steadfast *****,
heads cocked like guns toward the sky,
beyond the horizon
but well
below the belt.

Them star-gazing moments seeing stars seemin' small, I love how they gleam- gleamin' a'glarin' comparin' shine to shine, shimmerin' a glimmer shone stumblin' her way home from the bar. She's drunk. She's brilliant, brilliance of whit and wantin' a'wanderlustin' gypsy nomads- that ***** gyp'd me, no mad man would take a cerebral slam to the face lest them moving pictures are involved. Read a ******' book, it'll last longer. Kiss me on the collar bones, clavicles shone shining with slick saliva pining for my affections. You're clammerin' to feel me, clammin' up (Just feel me.) I want to run my hands through long hair and peg the nausea nervosa to the wall. The writing's on the wall:

The sun bent over so the moon could rise, chanting,
"Goodbye and good riddance,
I never wanted to shine down
on them seas o' tranquilities anyhow."*

O' what a day. What a day.

And the wind ruffles leaves and it ruffles feathers on birds eating worms in brown soil.

What a day. What a day.

And the men under the bridge gather in traitorous conversation of governments overthrown and border dissolution and poetry with meters bent out of tune.

What a day. What a day.

And the billboards are dry for all the consumers to consume, use, and review.

What a day. What a day.

And hearts break messiest when you're not looking.

What a day. What a day.

And the ego and the id and the redwood trees are talking. They're sitting **** in the marshes, bathing in the bogwater while fondling foreign fine wines and whisperin' a'veerin' conversations towards topics kept well out of hand, out of the game, nontobe racin' in races, rampant radical racists betting bets on bent, bald Bolshevik racists wagging Marxist manifestos in the bourgeois' faces, yes. Make it be. Nontobe sanity as the captain creases his pleats, pleasin' her creases and the dewdrops of sweat trailing down the small of her back– down the ridge of her spine forming solitary springs of saline saltwater in the small of her back. Aye-aye, guy's pleasin' a'makin' choices a'steerin'– government's a'veerin' a hard left into the ice.

'Berg! 'Berg!
Danger in the icy 'berg!
None too soon a 'berg!
Bound to bump a 'berg!
O' inevitably unnerving 'berg!
Authoritative 'berg!
Totalitarian 'berg!
Surveillance of *** and the sexes 'berg!
O' fatalist fetishist 'berg!
Benevolent big brother 'berg!
Homosocial socialization 'berg!
Romanticized Roman 'berg!
O' virginal mother 'berg!
City on a hill on a 'berg!
Subtly socialist 'berg!
Nongovernmental 'berg!
O' illustrious libertine 'berg!
Freedom of the people 'berg!
Water privatization 'berg!
Alcohol idolization 'berg!
O' corrupt and courageous 'berg!
Church and a stately 'berg!
Pray to your ceiling fan 'berg!
Biblically borne 'berg!
O' godly and gorgeous 'berg!
Ferocious freedom fighters launching lackluster demonstrations far too post-demonstration feeling liberty and love, la vie en rouge, revolving revolutionist ranting on revolution tangible as
an ice cold 'berg.

'Berg! 'Berg!
O' the 'berg, the ****** iceberg–
You'll be the death of me.

Snowflakes are the butterflies of winter...
Floating around, pretty and light.
The more of them that drift around...
The more beautiful the sight.

Snowflakes are the butterflies of winter...
They make even the messiest garden, shine.
No matter if the flakes are thick and heavy...
Or just a light dusting that's small and fine.

Snowflakes are the butterflies of winter...
Gliding through the skies, uncaged and free.
Only resting when the winds conclude...
Gently resting on every roof, hill or tree.

Snowflakes are the butterflies of winter...
Only present for such a short while.
A flying visit, and then they're gone...
But they sure do leave a smile.

Snowflakes are the butterflies of winter...
Making your garden glisten and glow.
They go wherever they please...
And please wherever they go.

you said you had been a mess lately.
i ran my fingers through your tangled hair and agreed.
the unorganized chaos in your head sent me into a whirl.
you said that old wounds dont heal,
i said that im just cleaning the cut.
ive always had a habit of disturbing things better left in the dark,
and i don’t think that there is any part of you that i left untouched.
childhood memories and things you had long since forgotten stirring in the dust
i took the paint splattered across your heart
and turned it into a masterpiece,
you said you had always liked abstract better than realism.
the neat rows that i stacked you in feel heavy on your tongue,
and you told me with words that i had already prepared for you
that the messiest thing about ocd,
is that nothing can ever be left alone.

Dear Big Brother,
Why do you boss me around?
You aren't my mother and
No one treats you as a mother.
Also, why are you so messy?
There is not a contest for
The  messiest car,
But if there was
You would pass with
Flying colors.
If you could just try
To be less messy, and
Stop bossing me around,
Life would be amazing and
We would get along much better.
Thank you and please address
These demands as soon as possible.
Love,
Annie

The thing about the word unhealthy is that it can only exist
in comparison to other, more appealing options.
In the absence of vegetables,
a diet consisting of processed sugars, caffeine,
and American Spirits raises no red flags.
Broken individuals seem to shine brightest
when they cannot be referenced against those possessing more admirable qualities.

You are the dent in a beautiful spine,
telomerase granting immortality to the cancer.

She is dive bar songs for everyone,
for her,
for this half-drunk moment,
but secretly for you, really.
Dusted in neon smoke your body can’t breathe
but still delicately pack into the corners of each lung,
knowing it can never be exhaled.

For someone so self-professed anxious,
She says lots of words that are not “yeah”.

She is a kiss that tastes like mornings spent reading The Bell Jar.
Long legs twisted into thick comforters, bare skin
close with the desperation of two people who have everything to lose.
Morning hair spread wide and thick. On your backs,
not wanting to move, wondering how
much time you have left. Doing
the math together.
The wrinkle following you through an empty apartment.

Here is proof, evidence.
A human alive; a body in operation.

When She crashes her smile into what’s left of your teeth
it feels like a jaw being broken by sunlight.
Closer to her than anyone,
without knowing a thing about the ashes in the corners of each eye.
Rings with an unsubtle sway from striped dress,
to the edge of your timid fingers.
I know how little a man can do with two hands.

Abandoned toys and worn out shoes have a past
, like the people who used them.

Don’t tell people the reason you have to leave parties early without saying goodbye,
why you stay so close to the exits, ready
to push away any innocent bystander who might be able to help you.
Don’t tell them She’s the voice mumbling
beyond the edge of your lamplight.  
Wondering what Hope means,
if the other end of the text message knows
and what it means to find out.

Some stories end with four shoes on a subway platform,
not caring if you’re stepping into the right train.
Others end in the fields
as the ants clean the bones.

Veronica LaMonica
Played the harmonica
In our local high school band.
She collected japonica
She says it is a tonic
Attuned to a young lady’s hand.
She swears she is not picky
But avoids the ricky-ticky
And goes instead for the class.
She claims not to be picky
But avoids like a big hickey
Anything of plastic or brass.

Veronica LaMonica
Played the harmonica
In our local high school band.
She collected japonica
She says it is a tonic
Attuned to a young lady’s hand.

Veronica is the prettiest
Down to the nitty grittiest
Girl in the local school we both attend.
She’s not always wittiest
Rather hit and messiest,
But I’m glad at least she is my friend.
I’d like her to be more
That’s what this rhyme if for
To tell her she’s the best in the world.
She ’s the very highest floor,
The one have always adored,
She’s most artistically talented girl.

Veronica LaMonica
Played the harmonica
In our local high school band.
She collected japonica
She says it is a tonic
Attuned to a young lady’s hand.

“i was born to make biscuits”
and so we let him.
flour, butter, one egg, messiest
table in the hole entire county.
mom watches bug and the boys
roll in the leaves outside, and
greg and i drink coffee by the fire
in thick socks and knitted throws.
a burst of the season arrives with
each sibling but we smile anyway,
kisses and cold hands pressed on
our warm cheeks until we're all
the same temperature. pop's biscuits
are done, so we sit and don't say
grace- just thank each other for
the things we have which no one
else could have given us. mom's
already missing the birds, and
wendy says she thinks she found
one of katy's old hats in the back
of her garage last month and she
even brought it with her this time.
we talk and we laugh and the little
boys nap and we just are.
we just are.

Love doesn't always arrive
In the form of a bestfriend.
Nor does it always have a fairy tale beginning.

Sometimes,
Love arrives in the messiest,
Dirtiest,
Muddiest times in our lives.

But how great is it
To be walking out of hell,
To be walking out of the mud,
With someone by your side.

I told myself years ago,
If to love meant to stay muddy and bruised then I will forget what it is like to ever be clean.

And alas, love has arrived
And love is here.

****.
Where do I start. How do I start, knowing that I can never find the perfect words to express every single little bit of emotion and the billion thoughts that run through the messiest brain to exist- mine. Yes I believe I have the most complicated brain in this whole entire universe or maybe I share this same belief with few other beings, competing to win the title of having the worlds messiest brain.

Having just experienced one of the many **** cramps oh and probably the first of the year, I have to say that I am in great pain and anxiety. My toilet is occupied by my mom and will continue to be for the next hour. Many things go on in the toilet. I hope I don’t **** my pants. Have I found myself? or maybe I jumped to that question way too fast. I have come to a realisation that I haven’t been feeling like myself lately. My mind, body and soul has been disconnected and ta da we have disorientation, constant questioning of self identity, a whole lot of self loathing, uncertainty, lack of emotions and the list goes on.

I am now on the toilet bowl and very much thankful for the spicy and alleviating whiffs of cigarette smoke taking over the pungent odour of- I don’t need to go any further do I. I have always felt like a TMI person and sometimes I see that as a negative thing but is it really? What is so bad about exposing oneself and only letting the world know the truth? Do we have to act a certain way in which we don’t address the smallest things that bother us and pretend we are all fine when our wedgies are killing us! Quite tired of putting up a ******* front!

The pitter patter of rain and petrichor helps to calm the discomfort of my stomach ache. The result of consuming large amounts of chocolate and milk on a cold rainy day. This is the start of something new or perhaps something that I have lost. My ability and nature to write my thoughts down. Something so simple yet complexed. Have I hid my innermost feelings these pass few months or maybe...what I have done might just be the scariest thing. Deflecting my feelings and the truth then proceeding to believe the lie I had been telling myself all this while.

Today in English class we read Hamlet
By William Shakespeare
And Hamlet tells his lover
"I loved you once"
And it reminded me of you,
Except I still love you.

Or maybe I don't,
I'm not sure.
All I know is everything reminds me of you,
And you're still the last thing on my mind before I fall asleep at night.

I've written you so many poems and letters
That you'll never read
And even if you did, you wouldn't care.

I've been in a lot of fights with a lot of people
But none of them have ended better than "and even after everything I just want you in my arms right now"
And I remember staying up till 4AM with you that night,
Gasping for air and begging you to stay.
It was the first time you expressed any emotions for me- besides lust
But you still wouldn't say you loved me
And you still wouldn't say it after you left me
For my best friend and then came crawling back,
And you wouldn't say it after I told you how broken my heart was,
But I bet you said it to her when she was your homecoming date,
And I bet you scream it at the top of your lungs for her little sister now, don't you?

I've written this poem a million times but this one is the messiest, and my mind is messier.

I'd ask why you never said you love me but I know you didn't,
And I'm just glad I never told you I did.

Under a rock
In the messiest river
You have given me
A power jam

It is red
And shiney
And it burns
With passion

If you hold it closely
You'd see the cracks
And feel the endless vibration
I always think it might break

But the red rock keeps it's structure
For every time I tried it
It has yet to fail me
It has shown me new lenghts

I am terrified it might fall into little pieces
One day
But as you promised
It always held together

Love is defined in the dictionary as an intense feeling of deep affection. Now, not only do I agree with that but to me, love is also accepting the other person as they are and not asking them to be someone else.  I don't mean that people in love can't ask each other to change in minor ways, but love, to me, means being able to accept who the other person really is. When you are truly in love with a person, you are free to really be yourself without worrying that the other person is judging you and being critical of you. It’s also based on the relationship because there are different types of love. For example, love between a man and woman (or romantic couple) differs from the love between a parent and child. However, in the romantic sense, I think the meaning of love is that which makes you whole. Not to sound cheesy, but if the person makes you realize the good things about your life and the world, then it's love. Love is when you feel comfortable enough with someone to speak your mind freely and you can become selfless for them, in some ways, love is having your best friend as your partner. Love can also be with things, you can love food, like me, because it makes you feel good. Love basically makes you feel good, about yourself, about others, and about your relationships. To love is the law of life itself, its one of the most sublime actions that a human being is capable of. Love is the messiest, stupidest, most beautiful thing ever created. It's so easy to fall in love and very difficult to get out of it. You know it's there because there is this warm little fire inside of you that erupts when you see them. You feel it in your bones, in your heart, in your hands, you feel it in your legs, in your lips and fingertips, you feel it all over and it squeezes your heart. Love is so hot it makes you sweat. It makes you shake. It keeps you up at night. It makes you want to be with them all the time. But Love is powerful. It gets to your head and drives you crazy. It hurts. It makes you cry. It's loud arguments. It's drinking away the pain. It's apologizing. It's make-ups and break-ups. It's running through an airport for one last goodbye. It's sunrises and sunsets. It's late night calls and good morning texts. It's flowers delivered to you. It's remembering birthdays and anniversaries. It's sharing a routine because you're one now. It's starting over and over because love, at first sight, is true. It's adventure. It's mystery and secrets shared. It's inside jokes. It's timeless beauty. It's acceptance. Love is absolutely unconditional. No matter what day or time, no matter what year, no matter who's who, love is the strongest most powerful thing ever, so be careful, it can destroy you.

who loves me. He loves me in the morning when I am still shaking sleep off my exhausted body. He loves me as I tip toe to the bathroom to wash the night from my skin. He loves me as toothpaste falls onto my shirt and I continue with an uncaring agenda. He loves me as I toss clothes across the room attempting to look decent for no one other than myself. He loves me as I toss on running shorts and a shirt with gym shoes just because I might at some point decide to go to the gym. He loves me when I change the song 100 times while were on our way to the craft store. He loves me as I drag him through aisles of baked goods because I think I can make a hobby of this. He loves me as I spend money I don't have on things I don't need. He loves me at the end of that day when we are eating the messiest foods and I act like a child making a mess. He loves me while were in the shower. I know this because he washes my hair and doesn't mind me spilling exhaustion over to him. He loves me as I poor myself into the bed far too early and he has to tickle my back as I slip into sleep. He loves me for these things and I love him for these things.

As I tap my fingers against the pinewood table, the strands of my hair droop in front of my face. My eyes start to become blurry of tears, I see nothing but the smudge writings on my paper. The room is cold, I can see my breath, I feel so empty. I can no longer see the sun above the hills. I wipe my eyes and tie my hair in the messiest ponytail. I grab my bag and stuff the unfinished papers in it. I throw on my black leather boots with the worn out shoestrings. The door swings open, all I see is pine trees lost in the musky dark. The stars lead me on. I take steps after steps, the dry twigs and dead leaves crackle beneath my boots. I try not to make a sound. There's a light wind blowing in the air, it tickles my face. My callow green jacket doesn't keep me warm enough. I walk faster and see an opening. Out I come, I see the empty road. From left to right there's not a single vehicle. I raise my arm and throw out my thumb. There's leftover tears still on my face, my hair still in its ponytail. The wind becomes colder, my scrawny legs in my black tights can't keep up with the coldness. My arm starts to weaken and I begin to cry. My face is even colder. I sit on the jagged ground with my legs crossed, weeping quietly. Suddenly there's a vivid light heading my way, I become blinded by its beauty. The light comes closer to me, it makes a complete stop. I see that it's a vehicle. A cobalt pick up truck. I stand up and wipe the dirt off me. The door opens and welcomes me in. I don't hesitate. I hop in and never look back. I sit back and let a smile crawl on my face, I don't care where I'm going, or who I'm with, as long as I'm away from the pain.

i’ve spent countless nights with you,
getting to know you —  even the messiest parts of you,
over a cup of coffee or a bottle of beer.
amidst having a list of maybe’s,
perhaps i should give this a try, i whispered.

when i realized how i wanted you,
you decided to run away.
only you have taught me how silence,
deafening silence,
can seem so loud.

you left and came back
and then left again.
while you were away, i began to understand
why we can never be together,
even if we like(d) each other.

either it was your indecisive mind,
or maybe it was how loneliness,
absolute loneliness,
can make us run into arms of people
we know we should not choose to be with.

i was not the right one for you.
perhaps, i was not enough for you.
but you were right and enough for me.
i chose you but you weren't strong enough,
to choose me — that's why we ended.

                                                       ­                       
— apbq

You are the girl I want to write poetry about
The one with the messiest mind
And the softest smile

You are the girl whose poems I read at 2am
Trying to understand what my feelings are,
and who I am.

Poetry is supposed to be many things
maybe beautiful is one them
but what is prettier that pure and raw?
like you do yours

i promised not to go back there
that place which has no life
the darkness my mind couldn’t stand
every minute hearing myself cry

so i write down the messiest thoughts
hoping it all makes a lot of sense
so that by the end of it all
i would understand my emotions

it doesn’t always work
i still can’t predict my feelings
but all i can do is try here
by taking everything that i’m thinking
.
.
.

& letting them fly with the wind.

I feel it coming on.
It attacks my system
With every weapon on the front line.
It wreaks havoc on my gut
When I am stressed, when I am hurting
Suddenly, my body starts to tingle
And it aches, and aches, and aches.
The pangs of panic and regret
Pierce their way into my midsection.
As my mouth begins to salivate
I know exactly what needs to be done
To make this pain disappear.
I excuse myself, neatly and politely
How ******* ironic
As I go to do one of the messiest things
I have ever done.
It's not emotional
At first
Just business as usual.
I close my eyes
Zone out
As I stick two, three fingers down my throat.
I feel the tension
As it begins to gag
Tighten, release, tighten, release
Until I can no longer breathe.
Tears begin to form
And I begin to cough, uncontrollably.
Finally, everything
All the sadness
All the lonely
All the anxiety
Is ejected from my body.
I sit on the ground
Completely calm, yet I am shaking
It is a similar feeling post-purge as it is post-cigarette
I lean against the stall
My knees pressed to my chest.
I am not sad
But I am crying.
Thinking
"What have I done?"
"How has it gotten this far?"
My legs feel like jelly
And my arms are heavier than I remember.
My head begins to roll back
As my neck is giving out on me.
It feels like I am going to lose myself
But somehow, I do not pass out.
I am snapped back into reality when
I hear someone come into the bathroom
I'm in public?
I forgot.
I walk out, emotionless and unaffected
I have done this so many times before
That I have a gigantic capacity for acting.
My body maybe cured of its physical traumas
But there is still an extreme feeling of nausea
In my heart.

Let’s make up
in the messiest of ways
and have a battle rage between our
tongues and finger tips as we claw the
forgiveness out of each other.

my mind is the messiest plate of food
matching my chaotic home
i have it together i have it together i have it together

My favorite days
are the ones where
the sky is gray and
the clouds are dark and low.
Where the wind blows cold
and allows us to feel.
Where the rain pours upon us
and washes away our past.
My favorite days
are the messiest.
The ones that match my heart.

what do you want
why should i go
when were you gonna
let me know
i gave you space
and more than enough time
promised i wouldnt beg you to come back
let you come back on your own time
let you decide
that you still cared enough to try again
but now that you are back
you are just breaking me again
trying to take the messiest way to the end
but listen for once
i can let you go again
don't need you
don't even want you sometimes
but i'm not the type to just quit
and give up on a person
but you are
and i am not disappointed this time
because i already knew
don't expect all too much from you
ever since you ripped my heart in two
because you couldnt seem to choose
because you ******* indecisive
and you keep on coming back
but first you leave to see if they're up to par
then you apologize and kiss me
till my body is numb and my heart is black
emotionless shell with her pleasure sensors intact
i guess that's why i let you come back
because you feel so good
when your mouth is shut
so we ****
and then my minds ****** up
because i dont need you
but i haven't found any other pleasurable love
i am frustration

& i miss you but i don't know what it is about you that i miss.

i don't want you that way anymore but thinking about you obsessed with someone else makes me jealous.

i miss your mere presence more with every minute that passes.

he's properly beautiful
even while eating the messiest burger.

i can't tell you how many times within just the past couple of days i just wanted to kiss you.

your smile makes me smile

blinded only by the condensation from my breath as we walk through the woods mid-december.

you drove 50 minutes just to see me for 30.

& it's really hard to talk to you like a friend, looking like that.

i want to know you...see you...understand you...feel you...protect you...care for you...want you...need you...love you...

everything friends wouldn't normally do.

How do you sleep and so easily settle your mind? Isn't there a traffic of noise that's loudly whirring inside?

How do you remember all those important tasks? I wonder how it feels to complete of what's been asked.

How do you calmly listen and not interrupt or talk too fast?
How does it feel to make friends, and have  friendships that last?

How can you plan ahead and think of tomorrow?Will it not overwhelm that your time now, will soon be your past?

How does a person show such vast integrity
Being your true self without an attiring mask.

How do you clean but keep it that way?
If a person should visit on your messiest day?

Do you not worry about what they think, or words they might say.

Anxiously reliving the moment in Replay.