Why Can't I Be Honest?

Poetry is supposed to be my escape,
 the one place where I didn't need to be afraid of being honest.
Yet, here I am, lying to myself with my pen.
This is something I did not believe possible.
Why can't I admit, even here, how I really feel?
What I'm really thinking.
I look at the words I write and see the same lies I have been telling everyone else.
I feel as though I have betrayed my pen.
I am so sorry, I have betrayed my writing.
Why can't I be honest with my pen?

Inspiration (Or Lack There Of)

How is it that I care more deeply for you than I did for him
  While with him inspiration was never lacking?
Is it because my best work came from that heartbreak?
Or perhaps it's due to that fact that after him
  I don't let my feelings have their day
How is it that I can think about you for hours
  And not a word will form under my pen?
I hate that I've won awards for a poem about his eyes
  And can't write a sentence about yours
Was it because hating that you love someone
  Is more poetic than what we have?
Whatever it is that we have.
Maybe I'm just scared that I don't care for
   You as much as I thought.
Or is it crazy to base the interpretation of your
   feelings on poetry, or lack there of?
But if that's the case, then why can't I write about you?

The Power

How can I explain what you mean to me?
How can I make you understand how much I have to lose?
Don't you understand that you have the power to break my heart?
I've tried my hardest not to give you that power.
But I failed.
I fell.
So, congratulations, you now have the power to take it all away.
The power to break me heart.
But please don't.

Just Being You

You make me happy.
When you smile, so do I.
You make me laugh.
You make me blush.
You make my knees go weak.
When I'm sad, you're the one I call.
The thought of you makes me smile.
You claim my affections just by being you.
You make me laugh.
You make me smile.
You make me happy.

Gone

Show me. Tell me.
Reach out. Call out.
Give me reason to stay.
I won't wait forever.
So, tell me now.
Give me a reason,
Just one and I'll stay.
I won't wait forever.
Do you love me or not?
Don't string me along.
I want to stay, but as much as I want to,
I can't without a reason.
So, here's your chance.
Your last.
Going...
Going...
Tell me! Show me!
Going...
Going...
Give me a reason, just one, please.
Going...
Going...
I won't wait forever, I can't.
Going...
Going...
Please.
Going...
Going...
I'm gone.

You Don't Know Pain

Frozen in place, the memories come back in flashes.

Fear. Hate. Blame. Loss. Sob. Fake. Empty. Pain. Voices. Lies.

Hit. Hate. Hell.

Thoughts. Fear. Coward.

Stop! Stop! Stop!

Please.

Razor? Pill? Knife? Jump?

Stop it!

End it!

Stop it!

End it!

Stop!

Die!

Stop!

Kill!

Crying. Begging. Searching.

Lost.

Empty. Dying. Fear. Hate. Pain. Hell.

End it?

End it!

End it.

End it!

Can't.

Coward.

Hate. Sob. Hit. Think. Fear. Hide. Fake. Empty. Pain. Masking.

God!

Beg. Cry. Hit. Blame.

God?

Voices. Lies.

Truth?

Hit. Hate. Hell.

Pain.

Razor?

Pain.

Pill?

Pain.

Knife?

Pain.

Jump?

Why?

Blame. Hate. Loss. Sob. Dying.

Hope?

Gone.

Pain?

Real.

Who?

Nothing.

Me?

No one.

Voices. Lies?

Hate. Hate. Hate.

Coward! End it! End it! End it!

Can't?

No.

Peace?

Want.

End it!

Sob. Hit. Hate. Hell.

End it!

Pain. Poison. Please!

Deliverance? Deliverance?

Sob. Beg. Pain.

God!

End this.

Back to now and I look you in your eyes.

I don't know pain?

Open Book

The sad truth is, I'm an open book.
My poems are the pages.
The secrets of my heart rest in these words.
What makes me laugh, what makes me cry...
Even the things that hurt to write, that haunt my pen.
The pages of my notebook knew my heart before I did.
My pen translates the truths and hurts of my heart.
Anyone can write words on a page, the truth is harder.
Everyone knows my life, my story.
I'll tell anyone about me if they ask.
I'm an open book, I have always said that.
But the truth makes me wish I wasn't.
Because the sad truth is, I've torn the pages.