when people are in love
they often say
they simply fell
tripped over their own two feet
face forward
and into the arms of their beloved

i did more than simply fall
onto the ground of your love

you, for me
were an ocean
and i dived
headfirst
roughly
harshly
almost painfully
into the waters of “you”

i knew i could not swim
but i did so anyway
i was drowning
entangled in you
surrounded by this being of “you”
engulfed in this feeling of “you”

and i did not know what came over me
but i let myself drown
i did not try to swim back up
because if i went back to land,
releasing myself from your grasp
that would mean losing the feeling of “you”

and after
submerging into the depth
the love
the passion
of “you”

how could i ever leave?

to all those who ask why i write poetry-
you're always asking.
why can't you just accept it?

it just so happens that the looping letters
and delicate metaphors
are my way of speaking the words hidden inside
that my lips are too afraid to form.
stop saying poetry is hard,
that just because of that,
you must be forced.
i've learned that anyone can become a poet,
if they're not afraid to let their true feelings inside
spill out from their fingertips
and flow through the ink on the page.
we may all be poets,
allowing our twisted metaphors
or straight up confessions
to talk for us.

so why write poetry?
to all those who ask-
write poetry
because you no longer will allow the words that build up inside
to become the fear that controls you.

you will never be forgotten.
ever.
your name twisted into metaphors and colors and distractions will forever
be painted across pages and pages of her favorite brand of notebook,
no matter how many she burns
there will always be one she forgot,
and she will only find it once she had almost forgotten you.
she will find the one Papyrus notebook
and all of your metaphors and colors and disractions will come flooding back,
just like how the ocean in your eyes
flooded her heart all those years ago.

i can't remember the last time
i cried myself to sleep.
i guess that's a good thing.

i can't remember the last time
i cried two nights in a row.
i guess that's a good thing.

well,
good if it lasts.
it's good until that next night comes,
and the next,
and the one after that.
and each and every time,
silent tears roll down your cheeks.

so i guess it's a good thing that i can't remember.
but that also means that when i fall,
i fall hard and fast,
and i shatter
leaving so much more work to do now
than what would have ever been needed.

It hurts me to be your friend
It would hurt worse if I wasn't

it's a good thing i don't share my writing with you
because if i did,
you'd see that
you
are the boy with the ocean eyes and
i
am not really okay.

i'm not sure which hurts more:
          the fire burning at my insides
                    or the calm that just won't hide.