(2013)
It must be a wednesday or a friday or any day at all for I am painfully aware of the wo… that consumes me
There is poetry in nature better left to be spoken wordlessly by the breeze
Passion doesn’t arise from 12 point Times New Roman but rather from ink on one page and another
Hope in another form but no fewer letters and I’ve been hoping for these past eight years so I’ll just keep on
My heart was paper now folded six times over to make it harder to tear I only hope that
I’ll keep searching for the meaning of life and I hope I find it as crumpled paper nearish a trash can
I don’t remember any anesthesia after talking with you but I woke up stitched back
Everyday I visit the only writers block I know to hone my words and wit and help them cut deeper into the skin
Everyday brings a new death in three words give or take Some days I drown
Loving you was never sweet like the taste of vanilla the way I thought it was supposed to be It was more like
I’ve always been at the very least a little caught up on everything about you This idea of you
I spend my nights wishing on every star in the sky that you are alive and well
I write sharp words with a sharper knife on page after page of what might as well be the skin of my back
You asked what I knew about you and I thought up a list of twenty things
Forever seems like so long until I think of all the times spent waiting
