what you do is this:
you write until you have him
bleeding ink for you.
the line gets blurry here between
loving and being loved
but i promise
when it happens you
will feel the difference.
but either way-
no matter who you choose,
there will be nights when you wrap your arms
around your waist
and try not to break
under the voice in your head
reminding you you want to live.
remember scars are good stories
and bruises are only caricatures of a hurt
that never made it to the surface.
when he looks at you like he
could kiss you as if you
were the first baudelaire poem
he’d ever read,
and you look back and only see
an ocean to drown in,
stop calling him back.
stop seeing if he will come to breakfast
even though he doesn’t eat in the mornings
letting him remind of you
when you get hurt,
you can heal if you have
beautiful words to spend the nights with.
but if you hurt someone else,
not even poetry
will save you.
sometimes i convince myself i need poetry when all i need is sleep.
"You must love in such a way that the person you love feels free."
Thich Nhat Hanh (via onlinecounsellingcollege)
most poetry begins with a place.
or an image.
or a word or a few words dropped into
some kind of echoing infinity.
sometimes it begins with a person
or a moment
caught under the streetlights,
gleaming on the pavements
wet from the rain.
im still looking for you.
every poem i write is a poem
i dont ever want to send
before i find who you’re supposed to be.
i forgot what it meant to feel.
i asked plath
where the sound of my braying heart went
and heard only silence.
to fill the emptiness
i used philosophy as a bridge,
stretched and burning
between you and me.
I am a fake, you know.
I am a liar and I use poetry
to pretend im still alive like you.
coincidence is an old friend
that can never resist dropping by,
so i pretend to laugh at its jokes from time to time.
it’s no coincidence we met.
it’s no way to start a poem to
talk about the way
two people can move towards each other slowly,
their hands stained green from the grass.
you don’t just start talking about
a starless sky
and quoting shakespeare
and confusion like a typhoon sweeping
into our tired minds.
but i do know what i can’t
what I wont let myself start with-
i can somehow work into the end.
and im not saying youre an end.
im just saying i noticed
that my heart doesn’t work the way it used to,
but when i heard yours,
it reminded me of an endless, beating sea.