Dear _,

You mean more to me than any word, poem, or lyric, whether it was written by me or by Poe himself, could ever convey. The principle of "actions speaking louder than words" could never be emphasized enough when it comes to love. Writing love poems is as effortless as breathing for me. It sounds as though I am trying to dim any previous feelings I’ve felt for another, but if those feelings were still an issue you would see them in the way I now carry myself around that person, the tones of my voice when I now speak of that person, not in the way I had previously written about that person. I write for the sake of writing most times.

Anyone can write a love poem for anyone- about anyone- to anyone. I don’t want that to be what we are all about: words. I want to love you with my actions. I want to love you with my silences. I want you to know that it is not in my poems that my true affections can be seen but in my glances and in my gestures. Love, I don’t want you to be my muse; I just want you to be mine.
Sincerely yours,

KM

I met Mr. Warhol the other day,
His eyes were tired; his hair, gone gray.
He took my hand as we walked along,
And I heard him hum a tuneless song.
I asked him how it felt to die,
He turned to meet me with a sigh.
He said it was whiplash and gasoline,
"It burns your nose and makes you sneeze."
I asked him if he missed his art,
He kissed my cheek and stopped my heart.
"Child, what I miss the most is life,
Living, loving, the thrill of lime-light.
But, throwing caution to the wind won't make you brave,
One day we'll all share a grave."
He held my hand and raised it high,
Then said, "Now dear, go paint the sky."
And that's when my alarm began to ring,
Awaking me from my Wonderland dreams.

It is void of beauty.
Of life.
Of joy.

I am the ear into which you spill your every complaint.
I am the sleepless kid with the rings under their eyes.

The kid that never wants to wake up again.

I am e m p t y.

Bruised knees. Stifled sobs.

Unpoetic.
Unapologetic.

I raise parents.
Siblings.
Myself.

I have no one.
Have loved and lost. He was my best friend; my every hope.
2 months, 14 days, and counting... since he said goodbye.
...The dress still in my closet.

Every day is a war against exhaustion. failure. weakness.

Tears every night.
To do lists every day.

Another pep talk. Another, "It will be ok."




Would you like to see my reality?

... It's a war-zone with a one man military.
A fight for a lost cause.

I'm just a drum without a beat... lifelessly marching on.

I am volume.

The stereo turned up
-top notch-
harsh to the ear.

I bother not with breezes
nor whispers.

I want to hear you S C R E A M
-to stumble along-
hand in hand
-two skeletons in the wind.

I was a trophy for a night.

But
you
will
be
my
trophy
for
life.

... As I tread upon the hearts of both
                                                          heroes
                                                                    and
                                                                        harlots ...

Storing up titles.
Forgetting faces.
"No, you meant nothing."
-Just a notch in my belt.

I will be brilliant.
An inspiration
to the broken-hearted;
For I was u n t o u c h a b l e.

Unable to lose that which I had not to give:

A Heart.

- For I had given my heart to you.

My mind... an adventure?
It's a mere circus my dear.
I'm a walking contradiction.
Ambiguous; unclear.

I'm full of aimless inspiration.
Desperately seeking a muse.
Never an open book, darling.
Difficult to peruse.

I'm a collision of insecurities.
And arrogance, love.
I'm a written Picasso.
A Warhol? I'm un-

Conventional in rhythm.
Unpredictable in rhyme.
Intent on finding myself.
In my own precious time.

Until then, I'm a poet.
A caricature of fun.
It's a wild ride, baby.
Yet, never quite crazy enough.

She wanted to be exposed. Hot sun. Wet grass. Rough hands. Explore.

…Although, she never found it within herself to believe in freedom. She was the prisoner and the jailer, in one…

Exposed to the elements. Tangled hair. Scraped knees. Naked skin. Vulnerable.

Exposed to herself. Human. Broken. Ugly.

She wished humanity could be beautiful again.
She feared she could never believe in happiness; feel hope, again.

Utility, efficiency, necessity … her mantra.

She longed to remember how to dream once more.

She yearned for open skies and lean legs. When morality mattered.

… She wanted to be exposed. Heartbeat. Heartbreak. She wanted to have a heart, again.