i remember when you
told me how much i
Meant to you.
how i made you Flourish
and bubble with glee.

my face constantly contorted
with pain and love
that made me stay longer
than i probably should have.
festering until my heart spoiled
and stank like milk
left in a fridge that had stopped
working long ago.

and yet still.
i am attached to you in an aftermath
that leaves me to pick up the pieces
you left of me
once again.
attached like some sick
umbilical cord that refuses to rip
me from your hold.

but how much do i truly Mean to you
if i am merely just
a crumpled up glove box napkin
used to wipe my blood off your lips?

you are free
to walk with your hands covered in
my blood
and yet nobody sees it
but Me.

left in a pool
of red iron spilling
from me
and salted tears
that stick to my face.

being with you
felt like
being icarus.

only
if icarus had stayed at the sun
and stared it
in the face.

you were
my sun
but
you burned
my wings off.

and so i plunged
deeply
into space
with my head
on the brink

of explosion.

i wrote you
a letter every day
letters to tell you
just how i feel

written in neat, curved
writing i told you
just how sweet
i thought you were
how you made my heart
glow

letters in which i wrote
with various colors of ink
pouring out my whole being
to you

i wrote you
a letter every day.

i wrote you letters in which
i told you how you made me
bloom.

eventually
i found myself
pressing harder on
the paper
than i had before.

creating tears in them
similar in shape
and size
as the ones
inside of me.

i began to send
letters
with creases
and bumps
and stains
splattered with tears

pouring
from my eyes

as i wrote
the anger
bubbling within me.

my last letter
addressed to you
contained
no words

but was blank.
because
i had none that

could reach
as far

and deep

into the cracks
of my
heart

to describe
just
what you

had left
of me.

Poems aren't written,
they're found,
Somewhere in your head the words are waiting,
They're sprawled across the floor,
You just need to pick them up,
Make a path with them,
Let your path guide observers,
And if you can't write,
Walk down somebody's else's path first,

He

  was

                    an owl.

     She was a
  
 dove.

A painful tear leaks from my eye,
It screams a terrible sound,
A sound so loud but unheard from all around,
It flows down my cheek and seeps into the ground,
“Help him”, it cries “he wants to die”

I'm tired.
Tired of everything.
I just want to sleep,
And never wake up again.

No, I'm not lazy,
I'm not running away from life.
I'm just tired of the world and myself,
And too tired to change anything.

When I was younger, I used to think I was going to be a Star.
Under a spotlight where everyone knew my name...
I was five.

Now, I want shadows and to be as far away as possible.
Hidden and far from consequence,
And even further from myself.
Where my name is not a name,
But just another word without any true meaning.

When I was younger, I used to think I was going to be a Star.
Now, I want to disappear.

I should have jumped overboard when I had the chance.