Of the 14th.

poetry spills
out of my eyes like wildfire
and I'm
finding out
not all tears are sad.

(sometimes we get too happy for the world.
that's all.
the world can't take it,
and we leak.)

not everything can be
broken down
(like stanzas)
and when you stare at me
my whole world is set on fire
and I cry.
(Not all tears
are sad)
But happiness doesn't place it
when you're holding me and
I can't explain
how I feel it all
at the same
time

rush
rush
rush
so cold and
warm and full
and empty
and lonely and
happy and
loved

no,
happiness doesn't
place it.

when you break me down like
a sonnet and fill all my
blank spaces and alliterate me
until my insides feel like they
really will explode and all the
metaphors in the world don't
do and all the comparisons
and similes
give simple juxtapositions
instead of complete explanations
and
evaluations and

I
want
to
die

for wanting to be with you

such a
rushrushrush

that I can't place it
and there it goes again
like poetry
and you're the words that fill my paper
and I'm falling
like blots of ink on tissue
like rain
like magic.

My poetry.