You're worth more than a poem.
But for now,
I'll try my best to make this much more than just a poem:
but a message from me.

What you don't know is,
every time she feels down, she rereads all your kind words.
When she's bored, you're not on,
she rereads them.
She spends all her time thinking about you.
She cherishes you,
You're the best she ever had.

She takes everything about you,
devours them, slowly savoring all the good bits (which is everything),
and then keeps them tattooed all over me,
never to be removed.
Each and every letter, engrained onto me with a flourish,
a kiss,
trailing her hands behind, stroking the way the gorgeous letters look
all aligned together to make such beautiful sentences.

Her eyes trail every word,
her hands caress the wonder machine that brought her you,
her ears thrumming with the sounds of you,
the music notes floating into her ears,
the way water flows,
for you are better than just any ordinary ocean.

You may call her an ocean,
but you are more than that.
The ocean only takes up 75% of Earth.
You are much more.
You are her sky,
her universe.

You hold the stars in your heart,
twinkling like little rubies.
Just like the moon and the sun,
you see everything.
The clouds are your façade,
and the rain,
your tears.
Beautiful.

And all she wants to be is the satellite,
to explore you and learn everything about you,
to always circle around and around,
to never leave.

I know you won't break me,
or her.
And for that,
I am forever in your debt.
So come to me when you need me,
I will do anything to serve my prince.

With Great Love,
The Creep's Heart

I kind of want to delete everything
Because maybe then I could forget who I am
But with my luck it'd make me forget who you are too.

I need to believe that I'm good enough
But rereads make me think the opposite
And words in bed are too dangerous to believe.

You see something in me
And apparently I'm blind to it.
I've been trying-your words don't scare me as much these days
But I think I might be showing it more.
I guess I trust you, is all.

You scared me, bad.
Or I scared myself.
All I know is I had to retreat.
It wasn't intentional
Without defense mechanisms, war would be much faster.

Maybe it's a cycle.
I'm not sure which is the starter, my writing or my self esteem
But they both seem to fall terribly every few weeks.

The limelight is unflattering to everyone
Because lime green is such a horrible color.
I think it's the worst on me.

I don't think you can realize how big of a deal it is for me.
I don't know what I'm so afraid of
But nothing you say seems to help.
I still freeze
I still petrify.
It still makes me want to run away.

It's hard rereading.

You can reread your history
or your notes on physics,
the life of Marie Antoinette
or the dead Mayan mystics,
but you can't reread
your own poetry.

Why not?

When you read anything but
the things you have scribed down,
the emotions don't fly off the page
or take your heart to town,
high on the feeling that
rereading your own poetry brings.

But how?

My poems are usually written
about loves I once had
and that meant the world
until they soured into bad.
These vent sessions don't normally rhyme,
and take lots of time to write.
But I still reread them.

Terrible as they are,
guilty as they make me feel,
I reread.
and reread.
      and reread.
             and reread.
                    and reread.

My whole being feels stuck
on the bottom of someone's shoe;
forced to go down the path I don't want,
sticking to the past,
stuck to the future,
and unable to enjoy the present
presented by the present present.

*rereads

The author took a break
To search for more ideas to take
But something came in an unexpected way
That changed the way he can relate

The author again, paused
Rereads again, the drafted poem
Did his break take very long?
For he can't seem to grasp the point

Was it him who wrote that?
He asked himself as he stress-fully sat
He confirmed it was indeed him but,
He fully understood, but now he can't

He thinks hard, really hard
On the wooden table in front
He hits his head with a bang
Then eureka! How can he forgot?

There it was on the tip of his tongue
It was hiding, but it was never gone
He stood up lazily upon a call from someone
Maybe the drafted poem should remain drafted for it to be done

She sits in a wooden rocker.
She lights a candle,
It flickers for you.
She knows one day he'll be coming home.
And the star she wishes upon, will show you the way.
And she'll  be waiting,
To wrap her loving arms around you.
The rocker creeks softly,
As the darkness  falls over blue.
Shadows dance on the walls.
A lonely man's silhouette,
As midnight falls.
Tears stream from her eyes,
As she rereads his letter.
She holds the letter to her breast as she cries.
Loving someone over the miles,
Is so ******* two people.
Trusting in eachothers love.
As they both live in there own prisons.
She looks out her window,
To the heavens above.

Or all that you thought of her while stalking her social media.

[And all that is real.]

Girl. She’s so skinny.

[Her insides are a fast-setting cement…]

Must be throwing up all that food she eats.

[… a dead ant hill.]

Sticking that finger down the back of her throat.

[The real her is down there in the empty passageways.
Looking for a way back up. Looking for a way out.]

Sick girl?

[There is no way out. Every tunnel spills back into herself.]

Yeah right.

[She is a connoisseur of masks. She collects them like you collect shoes.]

Look at her…all smiles.

[Same face. Different mask.]

Here she is on vacation!

[Sometimes the old her comes and visits. They hold hands. Catch up.]

Look at those shoes she is wearing.

[And you couldn’t take one step in them.]

Another shot of her scars. Are those even real? Those can’t be real.

[Her scars are as real as train tracks. They rise up from her skin and circle her body. They terminate in the station of her mind. In the valley of her head, there are some things, like her disease, that she will never bury deep enough.]

Another hospital selfie? Must be there for the pain meds.

[She looks away when the nurse inserts the I.V.

She rereads old magazines.

Changes the sheets on her bed.

Listens to the beeps of machines.

She brushes her teeth.

Careful not to look at herself in the mirror.

She traces the veins in her arms.

Imagines they are highways leading out and away from herself.

She is tangled hair.

She is anesthesia slipping through hollow plastic.

She is rough, gloved hands - poking, prodding.

She is tubing burrowed into skin.

She is two eyes, closed, dreaming.

     In her dream she is healthy.

     Escapes the hospital.

     Slips unseen down a dark flight of steps.

     Emerges suddenly into a sun drenched parking lot.

     Raises her arm to shield her eyes.

     Squints until the road comes into view.

     Walks with bare feet upon gravel.

     Away into some field.

     Where she comes across her body asleep in a hospital bed.

     She is two eyes open, awake.

She is the curator of these images of her life.

She is …

the only witness that matters.]