I may have been broken one too many times,
I may have heard "I'm not ready now" too many times,
I may have dreaded the thought of you too many times,
I may have cried over you too many times,
I may have wished for him too many times.

But I still yearn for love,
the beauty of it, the simplicity,
the warm arms wrapped around me on a cold day,
the smile when it rains,
the kisses and the warmth,
the shelter and the comfort.

I may have been broken too many times,
but the reason I keep coming back for more is because
I don't know how to stop.

I am addicted to the imaginary and pray it will be reality,
I am addicted to the concept of love and its endless possibilities.

One day, it will come.

we're two matches burning together slowly

all i feel is warmth and light around me
even if i'm one day closer to dying

it feels like it’s been forever
but then on days like this I’m reminded
of the inevitable colour of depression
of the way summer’s stormy clouds form over the mountain
in an all-too-familiar grey
of the way the leaves,
tired from the heaviness of hanging on to branches all summer
finally let go
isn’t there something so beautiful though
about how each dying leaf
tries to make the grey of fall
all the more colourful?
how falling isn’t the failure
but the most beautiful part of the cycle?

I trudge forward bearing the heavy weight of all that fall brings
and knowing the inevitable grip winter holds onto my emotions
stepping on each of the leaves
one
by
one

if there's one thing i've realized out of this all
is that good things aren't meant to happen to me
and things like this aren't meant to happen to me
so i'm sorry if i seem out of it
but every time you touch me
or the arch of my back
or my arm
or brush my hair
out of my face
it is because i know none of it is anything
and you would rather do that to someone
else

if you could

Your image is stuck in fragments in my mind like shattered glass, but this time it’s a vase that I wish didn’t have to break

It slowly starts to creep up on you at ten,
when you look at the clock and you start to think about what they're doing.

It then sinks in towards eleven, when you begin the autonomous
process of laying down, putting in headphones, and drowning
your sorrows in a mountain of music that was only written for you.

By midnight, you start to tear up, but your eyesight
turns hazy not because of the tears but because of the weight
of your sleepiness. After all, you've been doing the same thing,
sleepless nights, for days on end.

One comes around and you start to think they don't care about you
and you mean nothing to them. You begin to replay every moment
you've ever had together and realize you were blind not to see the signs.

Two and your hope is down the drain.

Three, you begin the phase of punishment.
It is your fault this is happening, you are the reason
that everything is ****** up. How could you ever assume that you
were helping, when you were only making the lethal hole
bigger.

By the time four happens, you've reached denial. Nothing
is wrong; they care about you and everything is okay. You're perfectly
fine and if someone tells you otherwise you need to slap them because
they don't know you.

And you can't even make it to five, because your thoughts
become too much and you have to close your eyes
so you can see them again.

creativity exists only in uncluttered spaces in the left corner of my mind reserved for falling in love, being in love, or being depressed

i've tried to write ten thousand times but i've only been left with a disappointment staring back at me, writing the same metaphor in about two hundred poems finding out ways i can be more creative but pushing away the melody of the keys because when you have assignment after assignment after assignment keys don't feel like comfort anymore

nothing can replace pen on paper but my notebook is running out of pages reserved explicitly for just me and if i get a chance to write down something usually it's a name staring back at me, identity undetermined, point zero on a map that has the whole world on it but somehow feels empty

my body has taken me to tons of countries, through plane rides and train rides and busses and trams, and somehow i still can't figure out how to find a route that best communicates my emotions

when the muse plays hide and seek i spend most of my time seeking and never finding, it spends most of its time sulking in the shadow of mental health never once thinking to come out enough to string just one line of thoughts

you can't make a poem from zgrjblksabg;saeibgsgkrg

we tell each other the things we want to hear because we're too afraid to hear the things we want to tell

One day, I'm going to wake up and not dread seeing you.
I'll stop wanting to fix everything about myself, I'll stop
staring in the mirror at the bags under my eyes caused by you.

One day, you're going to wake up and want to see me.
You'll be alone in a room, thinking and finally understanding what
you could have had, and you'll wish that you would have done
something now.

One day, I'll be tired of this ****.

One day, you'll miss me and want me back,
but I'll be *gone.