It’s April, and I
have everyone fooled,

that my passion is gone,
the fire has cooled

that my eyes don’t expand,
when see you around

that my thoughts stay intact
when you’re there.

that my mouth says its words
not for you anymore,

and my heart as gone back
to its beat from before.

that I’m angry at you,
but i don’t know for what

that I’m more independent,
and happier,
but-

the new “him” in my poems
doesn’t shatter my ground

I’ve forgotten the meaning
of how to astound-

of how to surprise,
or be fearful of loss

of the things that are mine
and the things that you toss

but everything's fine
and you’re nothing divine

and it’s april,
and I am a fool

I ******* miss you.
There. I said it.
I hope you're happy to know,
if you came back,
I'd pick things right up where you left it.

YOU ARE:
melodrama.
sunsets on mountains and poetic weekends.
“if you write about me, i will blush when you read it.”
playing my guitar.
playing with my hair.
playing with me.
“do you want to get something to eat?”
“are you tired?”
“let me in."
holding me down, in the best possible way.
approved by my mom.
poetic texts and the reason i’ve been clutching my phone.
too good to me.

YOU ARE NOT:
what you appear to be, you are so much more.
what i expected.
disappointing.
sure about where this is going, neither am i.
a manic decision, although you may seem like it now.
alone.
mine.
mine.
*mine.

A dash of dust
Unwilling to settle
Coats the pink insides
Of my lungs
As the butterflies
In my stomach
Scream,
They want to get out and I don't know how to let them out anymore
Because I threw away the key
Thinking it was tarnished and needed polishing
But really the only thing
That could polish a rusty key
Is to keep it in the door,
The door I so foolish locked
And slammed shut
Without so much as saying goodbye.

And now here I sit,
Dazed and confused
By the flash of my fingers
No longer taunted by inhibitions,
Trying to scream the butterflies cries,
For their wings so same
Are cutting me up on the inside
Like no butterflies before.

I'm the anarchist judging all those hypocrites
You're the hypocrite judging all those anarchists
There is a thin line between guys like you and I
We share a...Similar scene, though
Filled with...Sin-ful Misfits.
Clean cut suits, or ripped jeans
Baby, it doesn't matter to me...
No time to flatter, its time for the crime
Of justifiable homicide.

The stars don't shine as bright
When you aren't around
My mind thinks to much
When you aren't around
My heart aches more
When you aren't around
Worst of all
The stars don't shine as bright
When you aren't around

I wish I could be
Who I think you need
She just isn't me

I can leave
If you don't go with me
Everything hurts
When you aren't  around
Everything is worse
When you aren't around

The stars don't shine as bright
When you aren't around

Poppies blossom like open cuts.
Ripe and red, they fill the air
With a cloying sweetness
So potent anyone downwind
Must shut their eyes and breathe
Through open mouths.  Tasting
The breath of flowers, they grow
Nauseous and afraid.  

The fields sway in the hot breeze
Until they resemble an ocean aflame -
It is here, among these poppies, I have
Found the blood of the Earth.  
It is moist and toxic, an acid eating away the soles
Of all that wade through it.  
How many gaunt, pale bundles of bone
Rest below these soft, red petals?
No one dares to count.  

People do not fear such
Lovely things - if they’ve only seen
Pictures.  How nice it must be
To know nothing of poppies
But their color, their shape.  
They seem almost beautiful -
But you know better.

You have stood waist deep in the
Malignant fields, breathing the air
That slowed your limbs -
Turning your arms and legs into pendulums
Swaying to the beat of the buds
That encircle them -
Until you knelt, weighed down,
Nearly submerged by saccharine terrors,
And cried, hoping the water leaking from your heart
Would put out the fires you find yourself embracing.  
After all, during the darker hours
Any light is better than no light at all
(Or so something whispers in your tired ear).  

You know the horror of poppies -
But  still you have yet to plunge
Past the black eyes of those red beasts -
For when the wind blows clean, cold
Air to you what do you do?
You raise your arms and let yourself
Feel as though you can fly -
And one day…one day
You will look down
And see yourself above
A ground free of poppies.