How do I communicate when lyrics
Were what I wrote best
But everything I write is not good enough
For this situation and the pressure of the anticipation
Like will she understand what I mean?
Will this be enough to make her realize and see?
But nothing that's coming out is worthy of this
That why it's being torn up
There's not enough soul, enough heart
And I can't break these boundaries anymore
Maybe I should just give up on it all
But your hurting so bad
And it's affecting me
And when you're mentally blank and don't know what to say
I'm afraid of hurting you even more than you already are
Try to type another text then I delete it again
Because you're just not talking to me
But can't you see that I know your hurting tonight
And all this emotion is killing me inside.

If only

If only this photograph's could tell tales
Tales of how happy we were
If only I wasn't blindsided
To the illusion that I was broken
If only my eyes could show you
The love I had always felt
Whenever I saw you..
If only I truly knew
The beautiful soul I had around me
I wouldn't be writing this
But instead a love poem
Craving all of you
If only I had a time machine
To go back in time
To say the words I truly wanted to say
If only...
If only I pulled you closer
And held you tight in my arms all day
If only I could say
I didn't ***** up big time
But I did.... Big time.

What if we are like the branches of a tree, devoid of leaves as winter takes its first few victims? Will we ever grow past the frozen areas entagled in our viens? Nothing in our path ever seems to thaw out completely. This thing we dare call a we...suppose it's truly just a motion of hope, stuck in perpetual winter. There is no warmth, no means of escape. It's a challenge to foresee a future that isn't fixated on the "what ifs" of winter, when logical answers are only contained in Spring.

Spring was always my favorite season. Seemingly answering all of the unspoken questions that crowded my sanity. Maybe it was the soothing feel of dew mingling across the lawn that settled the nerves of my ever running imagination. Or the simple knowledge that Spring allowed growth after the deadliest of times. Spring was for cuddling up & gliding hands. There's something peculiar about a season of comfort & familiarity, trailing a season of doubt & bitter coldness. As if Spring was the solidarity force welding my pieces together once again. Unlike Winter, Spring allowed me to leave on a whim. Caressing my mind so that it could discern my desire to visit summer.

It is a sad twist of faith
To be here in this place
Looking at pieces
That belonged to you

A weird feeling
as the moon is full
On the same day you had
made the walk down the road
                       ~Feeling the energy makes me want to cry~


As I think,

                            "What if I had been here on that day"

...Many weeks ago

Admiring the hard work
With what you had built with your time

I would of said

What my heart truly thinks

What an amazing job
You did


                                                           ­      Instead, letting time slip away
                                                                ­                             And I am here
                                                                ­       staring at the scatter pieces
                                                                ­                you had left to no one



Filling myself up with the mistakes
I should of changed
to had helped you

Where would I be,
had I decided my fate earlier?
Changing timelines,
feeling sadder,
or maybe not at all;
would my life be nothing
like it is now,
gunking up my flow,
like a wounded baby's crawl?

Would I even be myself?
(Or was I ever really?)
Could I remember how to feel?
(Other than just dreary?)
Should I even bother caring?
(When it calls to me so clearly?)

Well,
they say fate determines all,
others claim free will,
but have they considered
compromising skills?
Because I know I caused my path,
and I made it pre-determined,
as without my desires,
my future isn't certain.
So to question what my past
may have had to offer
is to question my own
mind, self, and author.

If there is none that makes up our souls
then why does a little bit of you make me considerably whole
If there is none that bridges our hearts
then why does yours beat together with mine from the start
And if there is none that needs to be heard or said
then why does each word revive a spot in us that has long been dead