Dear Me,
            You ask only others if your work is good, you never actually trust in your own judgment. People have told you your writing is beautiful, so why don't you believe them? It must be the same reason you don't find yourself beautiful, because when you read your work or look in the mirror you wish it were different. For others to enjoy something even more the maker should be confident, so why aren't you? I hear you telling people who love you, you have no worth. I hear you telling yourself in the mirror you hate what you see. I hear you crying at night because of all the hate you hold for yourself. I hear you sitting in your bed gouging your heart out every night because you wish to be different. I've wrote to tell you to stop! When you do this you're hurting me the most, for I am the only one who's tortured by these sounds, for I am the only one forced to hear them everyday. Please stop, for you are killing me! I don't want to suffer anymore...... Please, I can't take this pain much longer. I know you're stronger than this! So please, please....... Please......just stop.

Someone asked me,
What ever did I see in him,
"He broke your heart,
Left you in two.
He has probably moved on by now,
It's time to focus on you."

I thought to myself,
"Well it's the way his eyes light up when I turn on the screen,
Or the way he sings me to sleep,
As the night pass,
And dawn comes on.

None of you could ever see it,
But I knew deep down,
Somewhere in there,
He did love me.
I don't need to prove it."

You used to be my muse,
For my masterpiece,
Now you're the sweet broken tune,
I sing,
as I fall asleep.

Let my thoughts flow onto this paper. The pen is my surgical knife, the ink is my blood. I put everything i have into every letter and word this is my true love.

These lines on this paper are my addiction i cant stop at just one. Every exclamation point is like an earthquake or someone screaming in your face!

Every question mark is like turning down a one way road and ending up in the wrong place. Some sentences are written in code. Just leave me with this pen and paper and let me get in my zone..

Dreams are much better
Than my forsaken reality

Every moment of it, I savor
Because when these eyes open
I'll wake up into a nightmare

In the middle of the night,
we were cold rolling stones
in an empty street.

Our souls bundled up with some sense of permanence
as you walked me home for the last time;
It was home, for the last time.

The darkness of night trespassed my secret shelter,
at the lingering of our embrace.

The first and last warmth
I had felt,
was yours.

Morning would be colder,
I might not feel the same acquaintance with autumn
as I had with you.

I walked with you under trees,
spots of sunlight rested on our skin and clothes;
orange-gold leaves falling
around our bodies, softening the ground,
beneath our feet.

In our innocent nature,
we stood in defeat.

Sometimes, you have to
be strong for yourself.
You have to know and
realize that you're not a bad
person. You too deserve to
be loved and put on the top
list. Others need to fight for
you as well. You're not the only
one in there. You need to feel
important as anyone else.
If they don't fight for you, then
all what you have to do is to
move on and realize that
what you gave them was
more than what they were
willing to give to you.

read a thousand love stories,
pause, rest awhile,
read ten thousand more,
and then deny equality.

If you ask for no more than you can give,
you ask for not enough

love is imbalance not an equation,
with a single solution

love has both constants and variable factors

so you write of tribulations and tributes
so you write of lamentations and liftings

you think you are on the same page
perhaps
but do we not all read at different paces?

one of you is solid, one is dotted and dashed
one of you is straight, one is bent, forever curving

when you think you are
in balance
in the same place
in syncopation

perhaps you are for a moment
a calculus of one point on a trajectory

and you say I can only ask for what I give
and am given
and no more,
you have miscalculated

this flux
flummoxed
when the old terrain is flayed flat
but thru the windshield you see the
plateau ends, the geography unknown,

when you see unknown
when you seek the unknown
when you give from places you did not know
you had to give from
when you kiss a hand
for  twenty minutes more than than the one minute you intended
when you give more than is asked
when you ask for more than you can you think you can give
the imbalance is the only concert
the imbalance is the the only constant

how do I know this?
what are my credentials?
you are not a teenage girl,
what matters of what you know of these matters?

I am who I am
a diversity of man and manner
I am past prime and in decline
but this I know
for having failed ten thousand poem times
you must ask for more than one can give

but that's not fair!

silly one, still wretched confused,
even after one hundred
thousand poem times

you must ask of
yourself
more than you can give
and ask no less
demand no less

a body in emotion is not a body in rest
when the imbalance is too great or insufficient
then you write a poem
look in the mirror that cannot lie
and move
on
or
move
off

and begin to ask
yourself
to whom may I give myself
more than is asked
then you have finally asked
the correct solution to the
unsolvable equation