What am I to you, if not the paper cover to a book?

A book you dare not read because the portrait on the front appears tarnished and complex.

A book whose words have been smudged by the bottles of liquor I use to chase the burning thoughts inside my mind.

I’ve been told I have an old soul,

Maybe that’s because my spirit has had its body in the pool of my tears for far to long,

Hands all pruned by the memories it has tried to down ,

Bruises in its thighs from how hard self hate tends to fuck her,

You know, If I could be anything, I’d be a glass of vodka, a line of cocaine,

I’d be the inhalation of every fucking cigarette,

So I’d never know the feeling of being let go,

Instead I’m a penny on the ground, easily taken for granted,

I’m a child’s toy, played with and forgotten,

I’m the paper cover to a book, a book you dare not read.

Suddenly the cracked foundation her confidence stood on became solid,

The trembling of her soul now calm like the winter sea,

Uncertainty, a distant memory,

Life now had the taste of spring.

Next to me you lay, every breath I hear so clear,

Yet, your heart is distant, it is no longer here.

The silence is so loud, an awful ringing in my head,

Is this what we have come to, strangers resting in our bed?

I always say my love for you goes beyond the farthest star,

But now it's hard to reach you, why has our love drifted so afar?

Is this what has become of us?

Mere remnants of start dust?

Accusatory voices that flood within the night,

Moonlit dreams with open eyes scream passing time to time,

Stars they dance to songs of sorrow with pain they can't forget,

Trees they sway to memories abundant in regret,

Reflections in the water allure to drown the mind,

The ripples when you touch her erase self loathing crime,

Sun lit days are cluttered,

Clouds they chase the pain she knows,

Soul; she softly mutters 'let go it's time we grow.'

She has a clouded heart,

An anxious fearful soul,

Memories of shattered past

Always in control.

The day is always Halloween,

A mask across her face,

Pretending is her highest skill

Her laugh helps her replace.

The scars of life shine in her eyes

Mind jailed, it can't be free

She cries when she can be alone

She'll never let you see.

She wants to love the man she's found,

But fears that she will fail,

His love is pure, a breath of light,

Almost too surreal.

She wants to share her fears with him,

Instead she builds a wall,

Slight space beneath it's foundation,

In hopes that under it he'll crawl.

Anxiety eats at her felsh,

Her soul it wants to scream,

What does this man see in her

When she is only me?

A warning for my writing

unsure of where to start,

She won't always be pretty

Your perfect piece of art.

Her lines won't make you happy

Her words will scream distress,

Each stanza won't be promising

Unlike all of the rest.

The words will move painfully

A mind all on its own,

There is no lovely kingdom

Just a jester all alone.

Thoughts are always dancing

A million crying stars,

Each phrase they crash right out you see

A pile up of cars.

A warning for my writing

I am a broken heart,

My soul she writes heavily

She has all from the start

I'm starting to slip,

Walls cemented by past disappointments crumble as they violently fall.

I do not pick up the pieces.

I'm starting to slip,

An earthquake created by screams of all my insecurities being released tremble beneath my feet.

Not an ounce of fear.

I'm starting to slip,

Waves of fallen tears are now being pulled back out to sea.

They no longer crash against my cheeks.

I'm starting to slip,

Haunting images my memories have drawn are being erased.

Not a streak to be left.

I'm starting to slip,

The cage around my heart has become brittle and flaking away.

No longer am I a prisoner within myself.

I'm starting to slip,

Too scared to say I've fallen, but whenever my heart sees him I feel I've started to slip.

Communication is my weakest point.

You see, communication is the trembling of my knees the deeper my heart sinks for you,

The clattering of my bones like a percussion line against the bass of my heart,

A love song my body has written only my soul can hear.

Communication is me standing in front of a class preparing to present myself like a project that I know has more work to be done, you are the class and I am terribly unfinished.

I have to be honest I am no Shakesperian writer, but if I were I'd write about the ways I love you,

Like my first roller coaster ride, my breath effortlessly aligning with the speed of the carts.

Or the terrifying moment I stood on the edge of a cliff, nerves racing against my mind while jumping into an ocean of euphoric relief.

I'd write about, how unlike your ex’s, I am not married to Fear, I am brave enough to love you.

You see, communication is the drowning of my heart that becomes frustrated because I was taught sadness is for the weak and anger for the brave.

Communication is warfare between my tongue and mind because I rarely think before I speak,

The stuttering of my spirit’s thoughts because it does not have the confidence to place the words upon my lips,

I'm no Michelle, no Eleanor, my words at times self-vandalize.

I have to be honest, I am no Shakespeare,

But if I were I'd write about the countless ways I love you.

Perhaps for now all I can say is, I'm apologetically me.