I think most days I write poetry,
but it’s never good enough.
You can be so much more.
You say, you are much more.
As my broken lungs heal,
sadness leaks from my eyes.
If I am not here tomorrow,
who would miss me?
Some secrets deserve the whole graveyard –
I am not a good or bad person.
I have order within my chaos.
When you love,
love, love and realize that
it’ll never be enough.
Which parts of your heart
feels the most broken?
I want to live there.
I want you to keep me there.
Until my hair turns silver-grey.
Which parts of said poetry is your favorite?
I’d like to rewrite your unhappy.
I’ll give us a happy ending.
Don’t believe in fairy tales? It’s okay.
I’ll turn your immortality origin story into an epic.
Kiss you back to safety, a forehead kiss
should feel like a million lovers
always trying to get the feeling back.
It doesn’t return, but I will.
I think when my depression cripples my brain,
it also plans to kill my body.
If I write enough poems,
do you think maybe one day
I’ll return to being happy?
That’s the thing about people like us.
We want to be happy so bad
that we often overlook the small details –
happiness only exists
because sorrow permits.
I think most days I write pain,
it’s a good thing I hold onto one fact.
Everyday I wake up loving you –
you are my happy,
you are my enough.