"Expressing your feelings
couldn't be called art."

So birthed
Shakespearean Walts —
whose puns crammed nature
into mens' hands
and shadowed doubts
that we are all human.

The need to rhyme
and snort out some lines
demoned great minds
who refused to color
outside the lines.  

Metaphor ran over happiness,
watercoloring lines
in INK.

"A petal is
a woman who fails
when she wilts."

So girls learn to answer,
coyly in high school english,
that everything but petals
are ******* symbols.
No reflection needed,
when nature is a *****.

Dear Life,

Funny is it not?

We loved eachother, just never at the same time.

Lately it's been lingering constantly on my mind, yet I still continue to walts around like I'm fine.

I Took you for granted,

so understanding I am as to why you can no longer stand it.

But "Life's a game right?"  I guess I just-

I just grew tired of the ******* hands from you I was handed.

Tired of standing alone in sorrow, of drowning in feelings.

That eight year rain shower killed me, but could've given you a sibling on a drier planet.

Like mars, life you could've had a brother on mars.

But instead you chose me,

A guy that feels way to ******* much, way to ******* deep.

So Why me?

Why should I  sleep?

So I can dream of a girl I know, who's exactly like me but doesn't like me?

Why, see? It's only been a week so why do I feel confident she's the one I need?

Why do I cry and feel hopeless seeing scripted love on a screen?

Why do I relate more, feel closer to fictional characters than the ones next to me?

Dear life,

I wrote you the key to my mind without thinking twice.

I don't ask for your sympathy, but a key for simplicity will suffice.