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What I Hide...I've come to be a silly fool
who somehow, still belives in fate-
Logically, I know it's wrong,
and fairytales are overrated,
Still I place significance in
actions that I doubt have any.
And though I still believe there's One,
Already I have loved too many.
But here, again, I reach to you,
with another piece of heart in hand,
Hoping I won't lose it to
another clumsy, careless man.
The truth is, I can barely stand
to be near you, but I cannot leave,
I only hope for some reprieve from
unrequietedness. I'm still naive.
I still believe there's hope for me,
for now, I place that faith in you,
the steel blue stare I cannot bear,
I cannot bare my love for you.
I only hope that you will find
something in me no other's seen
And save me from this viscious cycle,
of wanting what will never be.
A Bad HabitYou are the smoke that fills my lungs,
the nicotine that speeds my heart,
and calms me when I am frazzled.
One day, I was dazzled by
the blue in your eyes,
like the tip of a lit cigarette,
burning you to my memory,
and the addiction began.
Now, I crave you,
I am enslaved by you,
and, without a clue, you
drift away, like smoke.
Writing on the WallMost days, there is only you, and I,
and the wall that separates us.
I'd like to tear it down,
to pull you in, and fill Our space with
There were days, before the freeze
that I found warmth in your arms,
and we spoke with ease
but they have passed, and now
there is mostly silence
or small talk to pass the time.
You brought me into your world once.
I felt like I belonged,
like your songs were mine and
I already knew their words.
Days later, I sang them for you,
but you didn't seem to recognize the tunes.
I see myself in you-
but I fear you'll never see yourself
If there is "meant to be,"
I thought this is what it would feel like:
A name that leapt from a page
and etched itself to memory-
An unknown face, familiar as my own.
A heartbeat that now seems to never still.
And still, there is the wall
once filled with you- now empty
as the girl who loves you silently,
just on the other side.
I Forget MyselfIt's too easy to forget I am not desirable
when men smile at me and tell me I'm
pretty and funny and smart.
When they look me in my eyes, I lose my heart,
and feel as that maybe, just this once,
they saw something else. Something besides.
But I know that those are lies, and I'm a fool
for not minding my heart a little better,
wearing it a little closer to the vest.
And that's how I get myself into these messes,
where I am all tears and longing and
wanting and knowing that I should've known better.
But somewhere, beneath these layers of flesh,
hope still flutters up into my chest,
and sometimes, makes its way out, and I believe,
just for a moment, that there is someone
who can love me in spite of it all.
Then it's gone, and I am the quivering blob again,
afraid to meet their eyes for fear that
they will see and laugh in pity.
At what point does hope die?
At what point does one become hardened enough
to realize that people are what they are
and beauty isn't in the eye of the beholder, af
I Can Give You LessI am a tragedy, really.
I love with all my being,
and there’s so much of it.
The laws of gravity indicate that
large objects have a pull-
things should gravitate toward me.
But I defy those laws,
you (and all of them) are repelled by me.
Somehow, being the largest thing
in the room makes me
easy to miss, easy to dismiss.
I am not fit for you,
or anyone. I am an earth
with no sun.
I am not enough for you
Too much for you,
and in all my longing,
I am just a joke to you.
I spoke to you with my eyes,
but you were busy
orbiting some stardust,
meanwhile, I am just
Lackluster. I trust you
can't have missed me:
But if you could see me,
You never let me know.
I would give my all for you,
I must confess,
But if, my dear, it pleases you,
I will try to give you less.
Look not with thine eyesI have never loved with my eyes,
my sight has failed me one too many times,
And I declare, the day we met, they did not
see yet how I would come to love you.
It took the sound of your laughter,
the freckled constellation I could count forever after,
dancing gently on the ripple of your arms,
muscled though they're not.
(but enough to send me shivering, with want.)
It took me by surprise to see your hundred smiles,
and realize what some part of me already knew-
I was destined to take leave of all my senses the moment
I laid eyes on you, and smiled and said "Not this time."
These eyes have lied again, They're not designed to
control a heart or make up a mind. And now that I am thus resigned
I can only hope that your eyes, my dear, are just as blind.
KirigamiThose were more than paper dolls.
Their shapes were like shadows,
and I could feel every scissor slash.
I watched you with her, later.
There were shreds of paper beneath my feet,
and I wanted only to cut myself away.
I don't belong there, I well know.
Though lately, I've wanted to,
It's clear that I must go.
They say that I am crafty,
But judging by your laughter,
I'd say it's her hands you are putty in.
And I am just some starving artist
Cutting out a paper heart,
and then ripping it apart again.
You see only "Her" as art,
and you will covet that,
as I do- from afar.
But being artless, I confess
that you're far too near to suit me,
The Death BedIt's a curious thing- a memory foam bed.
Will it still remember me when I am dead?
Will my shape haunt this mattress-
the arch of my back become the curve
that you caress when you miss me most?
Will my ghost tangle itself in bed sheets,
and instead of roaming restlessly,
remember only where it sleeps,
And if you weep, would it feel the tears?
Would it recall the years we spent here?
If I could, I'd offer you my feather pillow,
And wrap you up in blankets
if you promised not to cry
as you remember how we shared our nights:
Turning off the lights and kissing our days away.
If bodily I cannot stay,
Then let me rest in our duvet,
And pray for you to feel me there,
or smell my perfume in the air,
Though I were gone, I'd still be near
and fondly should recall this bed
bought the day before we wed
Where you lay me, and our heads now lie-
if I should lay me down to die.
Blue Eyed BoysThere are blue eyes again-
They always are- the ones that
tear into me, leaving scars
in places I cannot show:
Kissed by burning flames of desire.
I dare not dream that
fire is meant for me, but
some foolish part of me fans
a tiny ember of hope.
My heart has bigger plans than
it will ever realize,
and your eyes are just the kind
to keep that notion alive.
The feel of hot skin
against mine, and normally,
I am inclined to shrink away-
pretend it means nothing,
But I must say,
I could not tear myself
from the warmth
of you pressed into me-
Is it meant to be?
That's no mystery to me-
A great beauty (I'm sure you see) I am not.
I shouldn't give a second thought to
you with me, but then I see
those eyes, those painfully blue eyes.
MaskShe wears a mask like it’s nothing.
Sometimes I forget it was made by demons.
I forget there’s a person living behind it.
Bridge ClosedIn the city of spires
thrust upward through the body of cloud
a piercing spike of adrenalin,
as the wind fondly ruffles her hair,
doesn't stop her from jumping up.
Reaching to be seen or saved,
by a city that blinks and misses her -
a temporary peak on the skyline.
Doesn't stop her from slamming
into the steel slashes
of the trainline below.
Even the most beautiful places
to those blinded by the inside-out-agony
of breathing against their will.
The city of spires remember her
as the cause for a bridge closed
on a Sunday.
Poem for My 2nd Semester English Teacher(Short v.)You stapled these words to the page.
Like a modern day tyrant,
You denied them the little humanity
You trapped their souls into
And threw them to the curb,
I understand that certain things
Should be left Inhuman
But we even give hurricanes names.
You taught us to separate the person from the art,
But if the art is about that person, you can’t pull them apart
Raspy Hill"I don't quite feel like myself."
I haven't for a while now.
My mind seems displaced,
Like it's wandered too far away.
"I've been having strange dreams lately."
Images of strange creatures dance in my sleep.
I don't know them but I know they are malicious.
What do they want?
"But now you're here and I'll make you feel right at home."
My saviour, my protector.
You'll guard me from this evil.
"Welcome to Raspy Hill."
This is my hell.
And you'll join me.
I'll make sure of it.
"Enjoy your stay."
FlamesThere are flames where
his head should be -
a poem left in the fireplace,
a dressing gown, a pipe,
forty pieces of silver.
This man promised you a winter
so warm and bountiful
spring would be ashamed.
He called you by name -
not the one that father knew
shoved under his bible.
But the one left behind
in the branches,
in the bucket of brambles,
and the columbines
buried at your feet.
Stones on the battlefield,
surrender in the grass.
What did his face
even look like behind the curtain,
counting those coins
and loosening the damp earth
from your shoes?
a love poemlike a dictionary ripe
with salted, sun spotted
words that emanate power
and splendor, i am unable
to describe you.
each one of us carries cemeteries beneath our skinyou are not the only one
to walk like there are
who looks both ways
before crossing the road
"knew a girl who";
you are alive
and you will experience
hurt, and you will
be so thankful
for every painful breath you take
because it's better than when
everything goes quiet
and all you feel is exhaustion.
there is more than just
one cold snap
before you enter
the winter of your life.
there are spells
of sadness and rage,
hate and denial
of all that you know
and all that you deserve;
and you are not the only one
to fight for everyday you are here,
alive and breathing
and striving to thrive
on such an unforgiving planet,
in such a world
that births emotional deserts
in its people;
you are not the only one
One Man's TrashGot it cheap at a thrift store,
left by some anonymous patron:
maybe an old woman,
cleaning out a closet,
significance lost to time and a
fine coat of dust?
Or did she suffer the loss when
she passed it, still on a hanger,
to the man at the counter?
Did she falter when he offered
only a smile and a "we'll be happy
to take it off your hands" as condolence,
like he'd be doing a great service,
bargaining off her past.
Then "keep only what you use"
the mantra of some clutter-busting
self-help book drowns out
the fifty-year-old strains of "Sleepwalk"
from a high school prom
and her hand slips from the fabric,
saying "You can have it,
God knows I'll never need it again."
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