Sha-maya

I vow to never write again unhappy but who writes when they can smile? Isn’t this the poetry heart in me you once said you loved so dearly? You know that I can change but I keep telling you; it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine like this. I can live with the cracks in my heart, I can live with the broken beat. It’s still capable. I’ll stop living when I’ll stop loving and love is eternal so maybe I am too.

I write until you're naked. You said I'm disturbingly sensitive for words and the truth is it gets a little crazy sometimes. The way you pronounce my name, how carefully you pick the tone and the way your lips form around it as if caressing me. I'm addicted. I am obsessing over your words, particularly when they're devoted to me. Once you said I'm an artist; The way I would be able to taste your words from your mouth into mine, like a kiss and you said I should draw you in flavour. I would love to write you. Dressing you in words of adoration, as I draw a line and trace your scent all the way down, where the blush sets in I write you na

She walks down the street and waits for first signs of people waking up and living their lives Suitcases full of hope, power and money, little notes from their wives, pass her by She smells the fresh coffee and wonders who they are and what motivates them to get up this early, or just in general, really Never really got why Spits out a dream she never knew she had and smiles at the strangers, collecting too many of their thoughts Strangers she could love, for sure I fight for my life as I wait for sunlight to collide with my eyes I think of you and all your beauty and my love for you pours out, filled beyond my capacity with love Everythin

We are in bed and covered by sheets, drenched in the atmosphere of love and passion; it vibrates through the room, stopping time and tuning out everything that isn't us. Her hands wrap around one of mine as she pulls in close, bare skin pale and sweaty. I inhale her scent, softly. ”I love you,” I whisper. ”I felt it.” My whole world fits inside of my arms and she embraces me lovingly in return.

”Trying to convince myself I can last one more season, yet asking myself if there is any good reason at all to even try or a good reason to complain about not comprehending my latest mistakes. I’m wondering why I am supposed to survive one more day. And after that thought passes, the next one comes. Sharp and mean and still as if it catches me off guard, as if I haven’t met it a thousand times before. I know why I’m supposed to survive. She showed me why. It’s ironic, you know? Or maybe not ironic. It’s quite depressing and infuriating, actually, to think that her death must’ve saved me. I can&rsquo

"It wasn't my intention," I said. "It never is, yet you always do," he pointed out. I like to play arrogant and I accessorize my attitude with red painted lips, and I'll never admit how much I'm hurting when you look at me like that. I put on my red shoes that make me at least three inches taller than I am. I'm sure I would love the look on your face as I walk out your door, but I'll never have the guts to look back. I'm a lion. I am proud. And I'm sorry. "You're amazing," he said. "But I'm not enough," I pointed out. I always know what to say to destroy a compliment. Ask anyone who has ever loved me; I can't handle nice gestures. I'd c

I stare into the eyes of death. I recognize nothing, yet it feels familiar. I've been here before. I dislike mirrors for all the obvious reasons. I avoid them for the most part but pain is addictive. Hot water drops cover up my skin and burn . I shiver. I still feel cold but that's probably because I am being haunted. I've always kept Secret a secret and I never really got why. I guess I just couldn't resist the irony. I met her at the local pub where I used to come and write. The sight of lonely miserable people combined with alcohol was inspiring and entertaining to me. I would write and observe and write. I knew most people were

I wish I wouldn't understand what it's like. I'm supposed to twist and turn words around until I find the right place for them to speak to whoever may be interested in what I've got to say. I seem to be lost. I've got all these words inside my hands and all this space to throw 'em into. I tried to catch the right description for 'numb'. My fingertips are waiting to press down the keys. Forming words and sentences that will make it perfectly clear. This. Feeling. Nothing is happening. Maybe that's the right description.