Rereading conversations
Remembering the past
You love him
You hate to say it
I'm your metaphorical God
You're depressed
You want to go home
You want to leave the town
You already left
You have to come back
Life is rough
Living as a misfit
No one will understand
Understand your depression
Unless they have felt it
Sadness for no reason
Feeling like a freak
Like a misfit
Because of the way you feel
Yet you have to appologize
For the things they did
They need to apologize to you
For being an ignerent ****
Expecting you to be happy
When all you want to do is cry
You thought you left this town
Tear soaked bed
Makeup smuged pillows
Terrible memories
Terrible mistakes
Terrible guilt
You thought you left it all behind
But you didn't
You have to be the stronger person
Even though you're
Breaking at the seams
You aren't apologizing anymore
For their ignorance
They won't understand
Just wanting to sleep
Cry
Cut
Tear the skin off of their body
The awkwardness
The innocent watching
You hate yourself
And your feelings
You want to go back to where you came from
Leave this town
Leave it a mystery if your coming back
Ever
Or never
You're still stuck
With the tear soaked bed
And makeup smuged pillows
You don't know if you can handle it
I'm here
I'm going to help you
Help you through those terrible nights
That, that I promise you will happen

In 1852, an artist named Luc Maspero threw himself from the fourth floor of a Parisian hotel
Leaving a suicide note that read: "for years I have grappled desperately with her smile,
I prefer to die."

Then in 1910, one enamored fan
came before her solely to shoot himself
As he looked upon her Napolean crushed ******* her.
She has broken a lot of heart
Men have died loving her.

Last week Mona Lisa walked out of her frame
And out of the Louvre Museum
Straight to the terrace of the tallest builiding of Paris and cried.

The world is smudged with oil now
Paris streets smell of smoke and warm colours.
My mother knows nothing about mona lisa
And neither does my father.

But he steals some of the colour from mona lisa's cheeks
And put them across my mother's everytime he pronounces her name
Like it is the only word his tongue has ever known,
Like it is the only colour his eyes have ever seen.

Somedays, he steals stars from Gogh's starry night.
"A good lover is a good thief" he says.

I wonder probably the Italian man who stole Mona Lisa wanted to put some colour across his wife's cheeks
Or he just wanted to steal that smile.

Maybe his wife had left him
Or yellowed
Or died

Maybe his wife was a bad lover
And he, a good thief.

Maybe his wife was a good lover
And he, a bad thief
Who went gaga over Lisa.

What I want to say is,
This poem is standing on the fourth floor,
Of the same Parisian hotel,
With a suicide note in one hand
Smuged with oil and warm colours, And pistol in other.

This poem is the terrace of the tallest building of Paris.
This poem is Mona Lisa crying at 3am uncolouring herself while trying to forget French
And a thief trying to rob the colours and stars,
And a half asleep world smudged with oil and smoke

Which is to say,
This poem is a poor attempt to be everything,
But anything about you
Wondering what would be the first sentence of Mona Lisa if she ever walks out

Would it be,
"Where is Vinci?"
Or, "I wish
To run away?"

You were willow trees and
Ice lollies on sunny days
You were yellow shorts and
Grinning at nothing

Now you're blurry memories and
Feeling full of regret
Now you're wooden masks and
Smuged charcoal pictures

The seasoned changed and
Rain washed the rose tint away
I was left with cold truths and
Sunshine didn't taste so good

Anymore.

To me..
The past has been written, crossed out, smuged, misspelt, , bold, italic, underlined. The future lays bare, smooth, spacious, a blank white page of an open book.
Although it's funny how we can look backwards and try to understand what we have written, yet we must live forwards.
You normally ask a question and wait for the answer, but to me it seems, the past can be answered and the future is the question.

The present however, makes more sense to me. It's just simply 'being'. Which to me, sounds like the most simplest of things, especially since thats what we do day in and day out, some of us not even realising. In the present I can be certain of myself, how I feel, what I think, what I want, who I am.

Right now i'm in love, that scares me.
Right now the whole world is at my feet, that terrifies me.
Right now I know who my friends are, that makes me smile.
Right now I can do what ever I want, that excites me.
Yet that's all I can be certain of, right now.

In 1852, an artist named Luc Maspero threw himself from the fourth floor of a Parisian hotel
Leaving a suicide note that read: "for years I have grappled desperately with her smile,
I prefer to die."

Then in 1910, one enamored fan
came before her solely to shoot himself
As he looked upon her Napolean crushed ******* her.
She has broken a lot of heart
Men have died loving her.

Last week Mona Lisa walked out of her frame
And out of the Louvre Museum
Straight to the terrace of the tallest builiding of Paris and cried.

The world is smudged with oil now
Paris streets smell of smoke and warm colours.
My mother knows nothing about mona lisa
And neither does my father.

But he steals some of the colour from mona lisa's cheeks
And put them across my mother's everytime he pronounces her name
Like it is the only word his tongue has ever known,
Like it is the only colour his eyes have ever seen.

Somedays, he steals stars from Gogh's starry night.
"A good lover is a good thief" he says.

I wonder probably the Italian man who stole Mona Lisa wanted to put some colour across his wife's cheeks
Or he just wanted to steal that smile.

Maybe his wife had left him
Or yellowed
Or died

Maybe his wife was a bad lover
And he, a good thief.

Maybe his wife was a good lover
And he, a bad thief
Who went gaga over Lisa.

What I want to say is,
This poem is standing on the fourth floor,
Of the same Parisian hotel,
With a suicide note in one hand
Smuged with oil and warm colours, And pistol in other.

This poem is the terrace of the tallest building of Paris.
This poem is Mona Lisa crying at 3am uncolouring herself while trying to forget French
And a thief trying to rob the colours and stars,
And a half asleep world smudged with oil and smoke

Which is to say,
This poem is a poor attempt to be everything,
But anything about you
Wondering what would be the first sentence of Mona Lisa if she ever walks out

Would it be,
"Where is Vinci?"
Or, "I wish
To run away?"

You are clean white linden
You are fresh, unlit candles
You are white countertops
Tall ceilings
Polo shirts and
Designer cologne

I am ***** old combat boots and
Pully strings unraveling clothing
I am cheap haircuts
No, mental breakdowns and safety scissors  
2am smuged mirrors

Collected...I could never be
Never be white dresses
Can’t be new cars or a sharp witty tongue

Can’t be

God teach me how to stop
Being crumbling crackers
Everytime you try to hold me
Tightly

Can I ever not fall apart
When shown any human decency

Please dust up my tiny crumbling pieces
And still hold me