Why is it that
All artists are mad
And poets sad?

She is what I see in the evening leaves; dappled in fading sunlight

everything and nothing shifts all at once

How can you expect me to think
Much less speak
After even a glance
From your tiredly beautiful eyes?

Why is it
That I hate
The feeling
Of this
Heart
Beating
?

we are naught but a passage in history
to be swept away at the turn of the page

It’s okay to be the clouds or the stars
Instead of the moon or sun

We may all be made of starstuff
But so are toilets
And dog ****
As well as radiation

Not quite so poetic now?

I want a life worth writing about

She wanted to stop you from hurting yourself like that,
But when she saw that fierce, oh-so-terribly
Valiant look in you piercing eyes,
All she could do was stand and stare

Trust me
Villains aren't all that bad
We just do bad things
For good causes

You have spent your life
Walking through the darkness
So you should be able
To spot even a speck of light
It's a shame
That you shut your eyes

The only thing
Keeping me warm
On this chilly night

Is the fire in your eyes
And the passion
In your heart

You see what you want to see
But we both know
I'm not who you want me to be

They tell me I'm gaining too much weight
Maybe they're right
My shoulders do feel really heavy

“What does it feel,” she asks softly, “when you killed them?”

Nothing.

It feels like nothing, and then like everything all at once as soon as it’s done.

“Sometimes the blood gets on your hands,” she says in lieu of an explanation and meets her green eyes. “And sometimes, it feels like it won’t ever go away.”

When winter ends
And this icy heart
Of mine thaws
When the snow
Clears away
Will I find you waiting
Buried in ice
Watching for
The first breath
Of spring?

We tend to think
That our body
Is who we are

But truly
We are simply
A brain

Being slowly
Suffocated
In this body