Tired. So tired. My eyes fail and my soul gives up.
What am I without poetry, Without words, blossoming on the page? I would be but a shell of myself And you would find me
Maybe I resent it because I know that since it meant so much it hurts so much more. And maybe I resent the fact
damp. damp and frothy and sticky upon
star-drunk child, foolish in your fear— announce your cries to the night, feel the heat of life
And we were always running never to but always from and always running... And we were always hurting never for but always from
Something is dying, Quivering on the edge Of my soul. It is shaking Swaying in the lightest breeze
My heart Is a glass ball Delicate Awaiting somebody Who will cradle it gently
i am unsure where you are in this night. it is cold it is dark
Whiteboards are erasable. Write down a message Swipe it away with a sleeve Scribble down another message. Swipe it away again.
Wet paper arrows quivering against the bright string of the bow. The arrows
star-struck because stars are fictional, heavenly things. but
As you walk away, Without looking back, I stand here, heart in my hands. I wish you had stayed Or that I’d done something differ…
The clouds in the distance Sit, patient Oblivious to my need For rain They promise the rain
If I died And no one knew, I don’t know. And I am scared And everything hurts
