i want you to know
that i'm sad
but i'm afraid
you'll leave me
after seeing this
much wreckage.

i used to have
lungs for breathing
but now they're cathedrals
of the echoing air
i don't want to
breathe in any longer

i used to have
a heart that lived
but now is filled
with sand and poison
i wonder how
i could still feel
my heartbeat

so if you don't mean it

please
don't tell me you love me
don't admire the
hand painted ceilings
starting to peel off
because it's still "******* beautiful"

stop calling me beautiful at all.
stop seeing the ocean in my eyes.
stop kissing me as if
you feel resurrected everytime
i whisper your name on your lips.

and please
if you don't mean it
don't put your head on
my chest
and tell me
you've never heard
of anything more
magnificent and
a l i v e

The truth about poets
Is
They’re not all alike
Some are derelicts
Scalawags
Lovers
Sisters
Some say they’re writers
Instead of Poet
For they know what that puts
Into the minds of others
Romantic
Lethargic
Gypsy
Some will never write novels
Poems are their Ulysses
Their ‘Love in the Time Of Cholera
Some are sad
Withdrawn
Choose to live there
While some poets
Use their words
To claw their way out
Some have fallen out of love
&
Want someone
ANYONE
to listen
While some have fallen in
the deepest ocean
&
Want to tell the world
What this man
This woman
Means to them

Most write their verses
Alone
Some at midnight
Some at sunrise
Some with coffee
Most with bottles

Most will never see the reaction
Of many
Will never hear
‘I like that...’

And most don’t want to be famous
Or sometimes heard
We
Just want to be
Ourselves