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If I was a swearing man many swears would be posted by now. Count your many blessings that I'm not....well not so much.

Forgetting

I try so hard to forget the things so close to me.
Does it work? No.

I cry to myself when all alone because of the pain,
the pain so sharp, so hurtful, so not wanted.

I want to feel fine again,
I don't know if it will happen soon.

Work makes my mind clear
8 hours isn't long enough.

I'm sick of telling people that I'm fine
when my world is really upside down.

Why can't September come any sooner,
for then I'll be gone from it all.

I'm confused and not sure where to go,
all I can ask for is a hug.

Scissors

Scissors come in many size, shapes, and colors
but yet they all do the same thing,
cut something.
Scissors are sometimes dull or sharp, fat or skinny
as per usual and eventually
something will be cut.
Those scraps cut form the scissors
are then thrown away
don't keep the unwanted scraps.
Scissors are a useful tool found
in about every household.
Use the scissors wisely.
Once something has been cut it's
hard to put it back together
be wise when using scissors.

Cut what is unwanted.
Cut what you don't need.
Cut and throw away,
Don't look back on those scraps.

Scissors come in many sizes, shapes, and colors
but yet they all do the same thing
cut something.

Hands

Timid
Shy
Risky
Offer
Accepted
Cold
Warm
Warmer
Hot
Broken
Wipe
Offer
Refused
Down
Offer
Rejection
Cold
Colder
Freezing
Alone

Puzzles

I have the piece that you need
You have the piece that I need,
We know that we need each others piece.

I'm too scared to offer my piece to you
You won't look at me or walk over to me,
We're way to scared for each other.

I think for a while and decide
You stand there hoping the worst doesn't come,
We're unsure of what's next.

I start to move in your direction
You get nervous and want to move but can't,
We're both terrified of the upcoming event.

I near you
You near I,
We are close next to each other.

I raise my palm up showing my piece
You look up and see the piece,
We know we need each others piece.

I hand you my piece
You put the pieces together,
We place them where it needs to go.

Our hearts.

Poetry and me

Why do I write poetry?

I ask this to myself because sometimes I want to know the answer as well. I write for the lone purpose of a dear friend of mine. This friend opens doors for me that lead me on a path that no one has tread before. My friend is more than a friend. At times I feel like this friend of mine is actually a part of me. This friend has done marvelous things throughout the world. My friend takes me places unseen to the human eye. My friend is the purpose of this creativity of mine.

I started this blog for my problem that I have. When I first started writing I didn't have a blog, I wrote them on paper and kept them in a secret place. It felt good writing with a ball point pen on lined paper. I just couldn't keep those lines all to myself. I HAD to share them. That is my problem. I can't keep this contained within me. I have to get it out. This blog is getting it out of me for those around me to see. Maybe someday I'll get a lot of attention for this blog but for now I just write because I need to help myself.

The only bad thing about poetry that I can find is that when I am done writing I feel depressed and don't know how to get out of it. I feel down and lonesome. At times I just want to cry. I hate what poetry does to me afterwards. I love writing poetry. This love/hate relationship is hard to deal with. I don't know what to do sometimes and try to find hope that I'll get out of the slump of being down.

I have shared my poems with others and they think that my poems are amazing. To me they are basic. Not the best but a step above good. Through poetry I express how I feel. I tell the world my emotions. I can get out what I can't say. Poetry at times is my life. My poetry comes on inspiration, I just can't sit down and write all the time. I have these thoughts that come into my mind and then I just expand and go with that thought. I think about my friend and how amazing my friend is. I write for help, the help I'm not quite sure of. But I write because it feels good. When I hit the publish button the pain and agony that is upon me is lifted away. I feel more relaxed because I am helping my problem. Then again five minutes later I feel down because of the mood that poetry does to me.

I stand tall but feel short.
I yell but it sounds like a whisper.
I try and sometimes succeed.

I love you, goodbye

There's nothing more than I hate more that is walking away.

Walking away hurts me.

You say go, inside I say no.

Putting that first foot forward is the hardest thing imaginable.

I hate dragging that second foot behind.

Cement shoes would come in handy,

I'd never have to leave.

I wish for that day when I won't hear the word: goodbye.

Hearing those seven letters drives a seven inch nail into my heart.

Removing that nail is painless, when I hear I love you.

But then when the night is over that blood soaked rusty nail rests on point above my heart.

That closing of the door behind me is the wooden club that pounds that horrible nail back into me.

Walking back home with that nail makes me cold inside.

When I roll over in my sleep I am awakened by a sharp pain.

That pain is like nothing I've ever felt before.

Sharp, deep, horrible, uninvited, dirty, filthy.

That pain is not welcomed at all.

Till that day when I hear no goodbyes

and only I love you's.