the saddest poem

is the one that's never finished,

lines left unedited

or unwritten.

thoughts left unmade

art left half-finished,

a sketch in a dusty notebook

where the pages have rotted.

the saddest poem

is the one that's never finished,

the one that's never gotten to finish its life.

the one that never got to breathe.

the saddest poem is the one

that stays left in your hard drive

or scribbled on a sticky note,

unable to touch strangers' hearts

with a few words.

the saddest poem

is the one that was never finished.

i wear my noose like a necklace,

too scared to hang it up and tie the knot.

people walk by without noticing,

some people tug it tighter

as a joke.

some people say i'm faking

too afraid to commit.

and every time they say it,

i draft a new note

with their name in it,

saying

look at me now, bitch.

i'm brave.

but i never am brave enough.

i'm afraid of commitment,

not ready to commit suicide,

so i just wear my noose around my neck.

maybe one day

someone will stop accusing me of cowardice

and pull the noose tight.

since i'm too scared,

i'd love it if

you'd do it for me.

Your eyes, two pools of darkness

Your hair, black as night

A slight smile tugging around your lips

As you eyed me curiously

I remember you vaguely now

But at that moment

You were so clear

And you captured my attention,

though I tried to hide my interest

As we discussed pizza and meat

(What a curious topic, indeed)

I remember thinking

"You must be the one"

And then...

I woke up

It had felt so real

But it was just another dream

You're not really real

Just a figment of my imagination

Why, I will never meet someone like you

In my own life, it seems

I cannot draw you

If I wish to

Nor describe you

Should I care to

But, I recall you...

You were altogether,

In my eyes,

Lovely

on the rooftop

past midnight

a g a i n

just

you

and

me

and

the

> bones <

of the SKELETONS

gathering dust

{ within the }

closets of our souls

Alarm clock goes off.

Depressed sigh.

Bones creak upon rising.

Tired groan.

Stub my toe - the little one.

Muffled grunt

Head to the kitchen.

Tuneless hum.

Open the cupboard.

Chirpy whistle

There is no coffee.

Blood-curdling scream.

a world

of ticking

clocks:

reminders

of reality’s

unrelenting

haste to

send me

spinning

my thoughts

sound

in between

ticks

and i’ve

heard

too many

tocks

why can’t

i end

this

writer’s block?

with every

tick

another

tick

on my wall

counting

the moments

until Time

lets me fall

but right

now i am

stuck

between

seconds

and

i’d much

rather

stop

tick-tocking

once and

for all

love is like an unlit match

an unsettling potential for heat

swipe, strike, let the fire catch

on the thin wooden stick, the stick so thin

it burns, eats, devours the wood

faster than the beat of a heart

but a gust of wind, a gust of wind

and that fire, held delicately

between your index and thumb

that fire is gone, gone

love is like an unlit match

doused in tears and heartbreak

lit aflame by lies and affections

a thin stick of wood

easily snapped between my fingers

easy to break

hard to mend

easy to lose

hard to find

sparks fly

fire burns

match dies out