I saw a sign that read,
"Poems On Demand"
I thought a thought
and quickly quietly said

can you write me a ballad of broken hearts
I'm without a claim to know
I search this wide and foreign land
in hopes to find my home

the river's wide but the drought is near
there's a staleness in the air
I can feel the sun soak through my skin
to warn what was once warm there

and before I could start to turn away
the poet took his pen
he wrote just a simple sentence
to calm the storm within

"I cannot bring her back my friend,
but time is the gift of gods."
I took the paper and read the verse
and transcended into thought.

Missing you is so easy
When I had you I didn't really
You can't capture the wind in a bottle
And expect it to fill your sails

I wish that that was true
I still miss the smell of freedom
The soft hole in my heart that wasn't there
Grows every time I feel the breeze

Usually, the nights are cold
I use these cigarettes to stay warm
But you loved the smell of cigarette smoke
I didn't smoke them until you left

My hands shake sometimes
I feel you running away so fast
But it's not like this is something brand new
You do this every once in a while

You're made from steel rain
The kind that breaks apart glass
I tried to love a hurricane for a very long time
But she couldn't stay forever

I don't dream but I'm dreaming
My throat bleeds but I'm screaming
There's nothing I can do, is there?

I love you like you so often haunt me
Without relent and with such an intensity
It's not my fault anymore, is it?

I wonder if I still cross your mind
I hope you know you still stay on mine
That doesn't matter now, does it?

As time moves on, I steady learn
My heart grows heavy as my mind yearns
You're so ******* far away, aren't you?

Goodbye past love, I can't hold on
I wanted it to work out for so ******* long
I fell and it's not dark in here anymore.

Boys are like tissues. -unnamed Twitter follower

If they're soft, they usually have two sides.
Both sides, so smooth and delicate, easy
To rip apart and expose the inner roughness.
It's fun to tilt her head back and gently lay
One of the halves on her lips and blow
Firm enough to get them soaring
High on endorphins and ******
Them out of the air, crumple,
And toss into the trash with the rest.

If they're rough, they're good
For one use only. They may be irritating,
But they get the job done. It's cheap,
They come in bulk, and always
Fail to clean up the streaky mess
Left behind for her hand
To finish.

If she's lucky, they'll have aloe
And lotion and designer brands
Made for those who are hard
To please. She'll be spoiled
By the silky smooth shine
On her face, but not one
Can keep up with the wear
And tear of being used
Over and over and over.

Once they're damaged, they're done.
She can't use them anymore. They know
The tricks. They know how they've been torn
Apart and crumpled and disposed without thought.
The smaller the pieces, the harder they are to manipulate
And bend to her every will. With one gone, what does it matter?
There's still the rest of the box, or the pack, or the cylinder.
Fifty. Maybe a hundred. All the more to her disposal.
Yes, yes. She knows what they think of her.
They all throw and shout and spit
Those filthy labels at her face.
But it's just another
Tissue used.