we kissed.
"are you happier now." you said.
nobody's ever going
to
          love
                    me.
but at least sadness doesn't devour me as easily.
i got thoughts to banish the
          sadness
and
                    pain.
the only thing i've ever wanted was for someone to love me.
it's a tragedy.
this is a love story that will end like r + j.
but unlike shakespeare, my brain isn't dead.
i will fight for love like the capulets and montagues.
i will die for this love to last.
and i will do anything just to make you happy.
but yet,
                    i'm
still
          not
loved.
it's impossible for someone like him, my romeo whose eyes are darker than the night sky,
to fall for a vulnerable juliet, who on the inside is a weak, emotionless girl who doesn't ever
get
what
she
wants.

Turn me into a metaphor
Any metaphor, I don't care which one
Either I'm the raging storm or the silhoutte against the moon
I'm the sunshine on your wet hair or the rain drowing you
I don't ask for your love
Just make me into a literary device
Pen me on paper
That is the only way I'll feel alive
When your words caress my presence even if your hands don't
When I will be immortalized in your works
I don't care if you stay with me for eternity or let me go
I want you to remember me and construct me into prose
Which maybe people will recall
And feel something, anything at all
I want you to use me to create that warmth
That sensation that the lonely strive for
So break my heart
Use my pieces to scratch out words
Use my blood to ink them into sheets
I don't care what you do to me
Just turn me into a ******* metaphor
And store me in your poetry

I've never been great at poetry;
The process always fails for me.
While mister Poe and Shakespeare last,
My writing ends up in the trash.

Their writing style, lost with age,
Their wisdom hid in ev'ry page,
The glory given where it's due -
These are things I cannot do.

My writing's forced; theirs doth flow.
I say it blunt; they say it slow.
Those areas that bless and move
Are places where I can't improve.

So why, with my lack of skill,
Do I keep on writing still?
With such a hopeless case as this,
You'd think I would already quit!

There was a time when I did -
My desk was shut; my pen was hid.
Then something occurred to me
Which changed it all instantly.

If Dr. Seuss had Shakespeare tried,
And Mr. Poe glorified,
And given up in dismay,
We wouldn't have his books today.

So keep on writing how you do
With that style unique to you.
Put your mind into use
(You just might be another Seuss)!

"Life is but a walking shadow...A poor player...A tale told by an idiot"
And his name was Colin.
Every day, in and out, day and night,
He pressed buttons for his job,
For the gluttons.
The place he thought in the rooms.
His day life was told, in hymns and stories,
Of men and women and all their glories.
The button was for the wild and bold.

At night the button was for hope in the dark,
Men and women praying for a spark,
So they could cope.
For their lives, were a stain,
On their world of grains,
The world of hives.

Colin sat at his desk,
Pressing buttons pleasing,
to the people appeasing,
His face a mask.
A day goes by,
The buttons do not stop,
His heart as a whole a spinning top,
His mind does not comply.
Showing the eyes his heart a whole,
"How may I save my soul?"
They laughed those guys.
Those glowing, sneering, smelly eyes,
For they have seen the pain of the idiotic walking shame.
He, Colin the poor,
Stopped the buttons,
He was a bore,
To the men, the eyes
On the walking stalking skies
There were ten.
Colin had no care for those men,
Those men standing there.

He stopped the buttons to live his life,
To keep from the place writhing.
Now Colin is free,
From the pain for he,
The button presser,
Was finally slain.