This is what I've been failing to see for the entirety of my existence-
I am nothing more than a consciousness trapped in a painting,
doomed to remain motionless;
staring at the enormous window
that I had never really seen before
for an eternity.
And my "life"?
Nothing but a dream.

I sit on a swing
Unstable and free
I slide through the air
No one notices me

I sit on a swing
With a noose on my neck
The seat falls out
My life was a wreck

They put up a swing
To remember me by
The swing never swings
Their act was a lie

The tree crushed the swing
They cut that ***** down
My memory is gone
But my ghost is around

It's true
It is a beautiful, exciting thing when the person you love returns your affections

But I have found it is something else entirely
Something a hundred times more meaningful
When the one who showed you how beautiful words can be
Breathed life into your thoughts
Compiled your most complex emotions into neat little stanzas
And writes like everything you wish you could be

Starts following you on Hello Poetry.

I hate it when they call me cute,
or pretty.
I am so much more.
So much ******* more.
I could destroy you.

I am an intelligent being,
capable of many things,
i carve my path in life;
I do not search for your approval.
I do not need your validation
of my outward appearance
to feel accepted.
I am aware of my own self,
and all that I possess,
so much more than 'cute'.

Save me from hearing
your stupid compliments
None of what you say to me,
has not been said
to every girl before.

When I read what you write
all I want to do is sing you a song
because I want you to
always feel like you belong
when I read what you write
and it seems like you're feeling kinda bad
I just want you to know
that I feel more than slightly sad
but I will always say
write about what inspires you
poetry should come from the heart
it should always have meaning too
and when I hear you sing
I want you to know
its beautiful, just like you
even if you don't think so.
And I know you know,
no matter what
I could never hate you...

I come from metallic bunk beds
from American Express debt
and Visa Master Card envelopes

I am from run down two bedroom apartments,
   trying to contain a higher number of people
   than it had walls

small. battered.
it felt like a field

I am from the palo verdé

From the hissing noises from cicadas outside
bronze screen door, they ring all summer long

summer never ends here

I am from large late night texas hold em games on Christmas night

from yelling, insecurities, laughter

from nostalgia

from teenager high school romances

Patrick. Susanne.

I am from divorce and cousins living airplanes away

I am from “don’t jump on that”
                “don’t touch that”
                “don’t run like that”
        from “I don’t feel like going to the hospital today”

I come from that awkward phase when my parents like country music
to when my dad tells me stories when he used to listen to Biggie

"are you okay laddie"

I come from Saturday Sabbath
I still don’t know what grandma believes in
but she believes in me

I come from Germany. My mother sailed oceans avoiding war.
I come from the land. My father witness oceans sailing to him start wars.

from sweet tea to bitter coffee

from the time I pulled out my brothers front teeth in a game of tug of war

from the only pictures hanging in the hallway outside of what used to be my room.
what was my room.

I am from Saturday night drive thrus

cruising south Tucson

creating a place worth coming from
where words drift off page, and family anchors it.

Some moments I miss you miserably and others I feel you slip away even more.
Most morning you're the first thing on my mind.
I wonder how far gone you are and how close to someone else you could be.
I wonder if rain on your window reminds you of that one kiss because I still think about it.
Hopefully writing about it doesn't make me too weird.
I promise I've tried to let go. You keep coming back though.
And maybe you're feeling the breeze on your neck and you notice the flowers blooming and you feel yourself become lighter with all this freedoms
Then again you're so practical. I assume you don't look at freedom like that.
But maybe you at least feel renewed and ready to be all you can be.
Maybe you feel a sense of yourself, maybe you feel like you can make the most of who you are.
If you're with her, all I'm hoping is that you don't use her. I'm not implying you won't move on, but being by yourself helps. Sometime it helps more than another pair of lips on yours.
If you find her's taste like mine, stop.
If not, I only hope they make you smile mid kiss.
This is a moment when I miss you miserably.
The rain is hitting the window and it makes me miss your embrace, your patience and your eyes.
I miss you a lot but I am trying very hard to give myself a fair shot at this.
I'm trying to be on my own.
But if I find I am doing all I can and I still wake up to thoughts of you,
And I find that the rain still makes me think of you,
And how comforters remind me of laying around in your arms,
And how everyone somehow ******* reminds me of you,
I should be stupid and crazy and come back and try my hardest to somehow convince you I'm worth it.
I don't expect you to wait. I respect that you could be so far gone that coming back would hurt too much.
But if you're waking up to thoughts of me too,
All I ought to think of are ways to find you in this mess I made.

If you're waking up to thoughts of me,
We ought to just wake up to each other instead.