The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

I write because—
A sudden pause.
Why do you write?
There is a reason to it right?

"For pain!" they might say,
"For fame!" cries another.
"For glory!" they might argue
"For defeat." some would bother.

Why do you write?
A student giggled, "For class to be dismissed."
"Oh because you exist." A romantic chanted.

The metaphors you paint vividly,
letters and punctuations you bring closer.
What urges you to bring into existence,
Works of art from bleeding hearts.

Why do you really write?

because I feel, yet they tell me I am numb
because I learn, yet they show me I am dumb
They tell me I should change my mind,
As I am only wasting my time.

I write because...
there's a thousand reasons that I shouldn't but a million more that tells me I should.

Tonight like any other you won't say goodnight.
I won't tell the truth and you won't dare to ask.

The message will be lost behind the laugh and I will just bury myself with yet another illusion.

Truth is simple people are not.

We somehow missed the point and connected just a little to late .

Crossed lines burned at the edges.
You can't plan life it just happens.

And the worst fools never allow themselves to know if it was anything worth a **** to begin with.

We can't live never knowing in fear of falling flat upon are faces.
It seems the closer you become the further the delusion grows .

It is sad what a person can mask in fear .

Another night passed .
Eventually there won't be a second chance .

isn't it funny
how i write more poetry when i’m around you?

i never understood
why poets held such eminence in words
until my heart was awakened by the breath of your presence

words, inherently, don’t carry much meaning
mere symbols inked onto a page
their fables derived from ingrained aphorisms

but the heart doesn’t follow these rules
she sees color differently
vivid and auroral

and she does not simply view words with guileless eyes
she lives them


x.

she had always said
her favorite color was yellow
for the girl with buttery skin and crystal eyes
it seemed rather fitting
yellow was the color of sunshine
and the color of her hair
after it had been bleached by summer
it was the color of the bumblebees
that drank from her favorite flowers
flowers that now
line her grave

she told you
her favorite color was yellow
because she knew you needed someone
radiant with light
to ease the depth
of your own darkness
so she said
when autumn arrived
you could watch the ground
become littered with yellow leaves
together

when you asked what color
lie beneath her skin
she told you it was yellow
she made herself believe
her body was freckled from stardust
and not from the amber glow
of cigarette burns
she still said
her favorite color was yellow
so she could continue being the light
in your colorless world

soon enough
your favorite color was yellow too
but not for the same reasons
she fell in love with it
you only saw yellow vaguely
in the form of teeth
stained from tobacco and too much coffee
smiling grimly through cracked lips
dripping poisoned honey
you guilded the word ¨love¨
with muted ochre lies

and now
she no longer feels the warmth
that once emanated
from her favorite color
she no longer tastes
the sweetness of butterscotch
and papaya on your lips
for you left her with nothing but
the sour residue of lemons and bile
as your gentle breath
extinguished her golden flames
and reduced her heart to ash

and now
she realizes that bumblebees
can also administer a piercing sting
and as she watches the sunset
with its amber hues
she no longer sees
the color yellow


x.

my mouth is filled up with words
that my hands can't translate

...and i'm choking


x.