rightfullyLE

in my words you’d be half of what you are in my lines you’d be confined to a mere skeleton of yourself held together by a 'poetic' lack of punctation "my that’s pretty", "pretty smart" well to be honest, in my words you’d fall apart and first-degree murder is hardly art an example “i don’t believe we’ve even met i mean i haven’t found the courage yet for stumbling towards you, to mumble an apology for crumbling apart whatever good thing you saw in me, by trying to undress you-i mean trying to impress you"

i stare at my coffee until it's too cold to drink waiting for you to walk out of my bedroom i leave the door unlocked wanting for you to come home and wake me up by accident as you try to be quiet, but can't be half of my bed is hollow and i can't lie- i can't lie there most of my head is full of empty and the absence that's yours provided the time, my idle mind will find its rhyme in your lines, not mine so i'd either need my reasoning to resonate with you or readily refuse reading what i'd written either way, me thinking myself to sleep lacks someone to think with much rather than something to think about

alone is not a place and you can't be there but i can alone is a state the size of Texas with Icelandic temperatures ____ i suppose solitude was always more of a choice than a confinement i suppose it's what's become of me i suppose it's what i had coming, in hindsight, for never inviting you over; overlooking you on purpose ____ no, i haven't missed you but i'd be lying if i said i haven't noticed your absence and perhaps, even, in more things than i'd hoped i would ____ ice doesn't usually break it melts, mostly slowly so it pains me to say that yes, i feel like hell but i'm frozen over and if you cared enough to ask why did y

If all else storms, she's a port. If I don't manage to sail anywhere in my crooked boat, with my wretched sails my heavy heart and my rotten morale,       she's still a safe haven. If I've found myself mad at everything, thus mad at her too-or just her alone. If I've found myself incapable of going any further, in whichever direction I may have wanted to. If I've managed to sink my own ship, purposefully or not. If all else is rain,       she's shelter.

it was then, that i promised something to the pearls, rolling from your glass stare, off the pale hills of your cheeks, following the blue paths along your neck in the vague direction of your heart. ( and i knew that tears are heartfloods and the swelling of a heart just means it can hold in a little extra ) that this stare that met my own, needn't ever see or be seen again, that these eyes deserved not to be wet for anything, that this heart may swell aswell, but never flood, no more.

white petals clung to their wet bones in floods of loving neither could have prepared for all they saw was the beauty of drowning in something so deep it was bound to prove that sinking bones don't gather any moss but rather oceanic amounts of life and distance white petals clung to their wet bones as i listened to the echoes of their peace cries resonating in waves of post-pleasure ____ waves break on the surface what's in it, what's underneath i've seen waves break on the surface without understanding - at all - the sea love drunk, passion drowned beware the heart, it doesn't swim deep-sea tales of start and finish watering down   to

days and nights of static note that no, i'm not alone but she's not here and doesn't hear me know that no, no i won't give up now, no i'm still at it but i fear my thoughts are wearing thin i, clearly, am clouding up beneath my skin so let me go, or let me have it

and i speak, but don't speak the language, her tongue puts mine to shame for at the tip of hers i'm at a loss for words poetry is her lips moving in sync with all the thoughts i think poetry is words stuck in my mind colliding and confined for as i said, i don't speak the language

shallow as a calm sea i could still drown in with more ease than walking a straight line either sober on my own or drunk on you your eyes are shores i'd set sail towards and then crash into; your eyes are seas i want to swim in even though i know i'll drown because, either i can't swim in rough waters, or young, wild waves can't play gently enough

paper wrapped roses crumpled along the outlines of blood-red life, with thorns that tore my pages these words were too fragile to capture such beauty black and blue ink is equally dead, you were too much alive to be caught, or wrapped up, described upon and paper doesn't grow so you outgrew me and thorns don't always mean to sting or tear, but always just do