I always find myself writing poems about men...
Men who...broke, shook, and tossed me out of their lives.
Using premeditated synonyms for hurt, pain, and aftermath,
Regurgitating it through pen, to paper.

My pen has been my boyfriend for far too long.
But, this pen...this pen has been the only one that knows just what
I am about to say....The one that finishes all my-

But pen, I have been using you for ALL the wrong reasons, wasting your
indigo ink with MY sorrow. And your "Ink" has run out.
You have been replaced, quite frankly...by...a...man.
I know what you...or I am thinking, "Another disaster waiting to happen right?"

Well pen, I don't really know, and you can't always be the one
Telling me the endings of "fairytales" that I don't care to know.

...This boy is a dream that I just couldn't....can't close my eyes to
because, not seeing him for one second makes me think that I wouldn't...
Will, never see him again. That I WILL lose him forever...

6/29/14

Dear Pen,

I never actually knew what "love" looked like.
To me, love...unconditional love had a ballpoint head,
no eyes, or hands, and the only way it talked was if I made it.
Love could be clicked "off" when I was tired of controlling it.

But pen, I have been using you for ALL the wrong -

But love has light brown hair, a crooked smile,
three beauty marks on the front of it's neck, rosy cheeks,
large hands, small fingers...

And love feels...
mere words cannot do the sensation justice.
A concoction that consists of certainty and absolute mystery...
 

I have been trapped in a synonymous relationship with "hate" for so long
That I NEVER opened my thesaurus of a heart to "Love"...And with each synonym it...beats...faster...
 

6/30/14

Dear Pen,
He. Is. So. Perfect.
No matter how many times I say it,
It will always be true.
Maybe it is because the only thing that makes sense
in my mind and my heart, that falls off my lips without hesitation.
He is perfect, no many how many times he denies it.

...Baby, you are as perfect as the stars, as delicate as the veins of leaf,
as unflawed as the exoskeleton of an ant....We are made up of so many coincidences
that our existence alone is EVERYTHING but otherwise...
 

He never finishes my sentences,
sometimes, he interrupts them,
but it a lovely interruption...

7/1/14

Dear Pen,
I am sorry, but this...
Isn't working out. I have been stuck in the past for far too long,
I cannot wallow in sadness anymore
I finally found someone worth writing for.

Love,
   ....