i didn't want to turn you into a poem
i didn't want you to be my muse
you've ruined my mind and my pen
you've made me blind to inspiration
i can't hold the pages still anymore
i can't understand my own writing 
your hair isn't a waterfall 
your eyes aren't deep oceans 
i'm not held here by your gravity
i'm not sure that your voice is music
you won't own me
i won't turn you into poetry

[holyoak]

I’ve been wrestling this since last fall,
peeling my socks off around 2a.m.
and crawling into my nightmares
like a child on her hands and knees.
I’ve tossed my hair in the towel,
examined the scratches on my back
or the bite mark on my shoulder,
juxtaposing them to my flaws,
prying myself open and watching
the little memories flood
from my arteries like insects.
I’ve ******

the energy from my cheeks and given it
to my bones so they may carry
the weight of last year into this year,
the heavy balance between leaving your room
and sitting myself against the frame,
legs to my chest, listening to the unheard voices
telling me to stop loving you.
I’ve cut

you out like bruises on a strawberry,
throwing the bad parts into the black hole
to be grinded and deposited as to be rightfully
grown into something new. But this time,

after we made love on your floor
and counted the stars that left my mouth
every time you touched me like that,

I let myself cling to the light.
I stuffed the empty parts with your remnants,
and latched onto the goodbye kiss.
I’ve been wrestling with you

our bodies so close

since the summer ended and we rejoined
the feelings we spared just to pretend
that we didn’t hear the kettle roar
when we were finished.

Is a poem a song you speak?
Is it the music of the soul?
Is it a random, over-analysed hypothesis?
Does it have meaning as a whole?

Does anybody care,
About the words we post on sites?
The pain that makes good poetry,
Does it make us parasites?

Do we **** the blood of sorrow,
Till its bitter juice is done?
A ton of bloated leeches,
Belching back the pain we've won?

Is my anguish worse than yours,
Because I write it like a song?
Do you care about my heart,
Because my sonnet reads so long?

Are my poems just graffiti,
On the tombs of poets dead?
Is a poem really better,
When it's torment that's been said?

How beautiful it is to lock your self inside
to turn the volume all the way up
and let the words of your favorite artist,
your most compatible soul, paint the bathroom walls,
with tranquil melodies.

How free it feels to let each note fill the recesses of your mind,
until you are hollow no more

How rebellious it must be stand in the spot where you and him made love, and let the warm shower water cover your icy veins and open wounds with embrace and dignity

How badly you want to scream and shout and declare your anger unto the world,
how badly you want to shatter mirrors and forget the memories,

Well darling, shatter away,
Graffiti the walls with words that make you cringe,
rip the doors off their hinges,
ignite the memories in flames till your mind is burning,
not for the past,
but for something new
something grand.

Throw the ashes in the ground and let them cultivate and grow,
into something they were never capable of being.
break down the barriers.
defy the odds of what this cookie cutter universe of fallen stars and broken dreams has to offer.

You're not like them.
you're not a fallen star,
your edges are never stagnant
you're like the sun,
you rise
you fall
you have your lows
but even when the shadows off the night lurk in,
we still see your glow.

I'm trying to break out
From underneath the leaves
That fall on top of me
From the tree next to where I sleep

But then I remember
You're no longer there
To help me crawl my way back out
So that I can finally sleep

I'll try to pretend
That this isn't the end
And fill my thoughts with memories
Of your heart across my hands

I just wish I would've been more gentle
And not have held it to hard
And too close to my own
Because now I don't feel at home.

Added pain,
My only  gain,
Unwilling to explain,
Why I'm going insane.

Nothing to say,
Stay outta my way,
I'm not gonna play,
Better you go away.

Always feel wrong,
Though I try to stay strong,
Been crying this song,
For far, far too long.

Gonna get worse,
Got no reverse,
Know this last verse,
Leads to a hearse...

Spin a story
Make it so
The audiences is left nauseated
Wondering
When will this end
Only to hop off
And want to be spun again