Let me talk about love...
that thing I want in life.
Let me speak about it,
like,
I don't have it,
when I do have it.
Just not that type.
Let me not whisper about it, okay?
Let me just talk, and just listen
don't say.

A word.
I want it so badly.
I want it today.
I want it right now.
And that is okay, because everyone does.
Everyone wants it.
Everyone needs it, as a matter of fact.

And this it that I speak of
is of mutual kind
a mutual deep, crazy,
love.
a one that is rich
is real and is blind.
A love that is lovely beyond all beauties and time
A love that does not factor seconds
into the spaces it lives
no it is timeless
and priceless and
gives


These loves they will tear you to shreds if their gone.
These loves will leave spaces like open black stars.

Time will make its new home in your scar.
And kiss you till death,
till you live to love again.

Let me tell you. My love?
Let me tell you again.

Love is your enemy. Love is your friend.

you are still the one i love.
it has been forever since i could tell you
i havent seen you, or heard from you
i thought you said still friends?

but you are not here.
even though im still waiting for you
what the hell should i do?
ive tried to just shut off these ideas

but im still sitting here.
lost in thoughts you
that perfect hair i want my fingers through
and those lips, ill never forget

theyve probably found some other girls mouth
i wonder if she loves you like i do
if she loves your hair too
i wonder if she will be able to move on.

or will she be stuck too?

I want to write a poem about
                    how
the poems I write are personal now.
I want to write a poem about
why this has become so.
I want to write a poem
explaining
                    how
everywhere my complaining is heard
through my type-work
my mind becomes a big ole ****
and shoots me down.
Ya know, I was once I flying bird.
Who could live outside of herself, while also bringing out the within
This
               is
                                too
                                            personal.
That I cannot r e s t, enjoy
the characters
I've created with the beater of my chest
or a song
or a quote
or a word.
                 instead
Into the paper I come out.
                               It
                    is
           too
personal.
When I cannot seem to
let it go
to let me go
and free my inner me's in pieces and in bits
instead.
Instead of dramatic fits, and murders of lines--
virtual ink inclined to think like me and respond
to this tip, tap tying.
Oh
I               am               too                 personal
With this bit, and that bit.
Of me.
And no more, do my stories reign
The randomness is replaced with madness or glee
whatever feeling I feel, in the poem
it is therefore connected to me.
I'm connected to every word.
I want to write a poem, that not speaking for me.
I want
             to write a poem.
I want
                    to write
I want
to              not

       be

so

personal.

If freckles were lovely, and day was night,
And measles were nice and a lie warn’t a lie,
Life would be delight,—
But things couldn’t go right
For in such a sad plight
I wouldn’t be I.

If earth was heaven and now was hence,
And past was present, and false was true,
There might be some sense
But I’d be in suspense
For on such a pretense
You wouldn’t be you.

If fear was plucky, and globes were square,
And dirt was cleanly and tears were glee
Things would seem fair,—
Yet they’d all despair,
For if here was there
We wouldn’t be we.