Loves soz.

You're a showbox filled
to the brim with mixed tapes
because you're loved from afar.
And loved in the dark.
And you'd freeze your heart
before seeing it break.

You're making me lose focus,
and in this confusion
I'm writing this list poem.
You're motivation to clean my flat.
You're making me wear new clothes
in the hope for more compliments,
You're the subject of internal monologues,
That i imagine are conversations.
You're smiling
and I pray your eyes open
and I pray you don't leave
too early in the morning
and I pray for small things
like hand holding,
like hand holding,
like, to be unapologetically
in love
like, to kiss while waiting for
the bus.
It's more a hope than a prayer
and I suppose it's a joke
how I'm a player.
yet you're a drawer filled to the brim
with final drafts
that I'm scared of letting go
because if you read them you'd know,
that you're all i think of.
and-
and it's the one topic I don't broach
in our four hour long talks
and i kick myself for it
on my late night, lonesome
on my way home walks-
I stop because
I've been in this position before-
and it cut me raw
I was pumped with an anesthetic
that left me numb to the core.

It was then I started playing
playing to forget
playing to grow
playing to play
praying not to hope
the way i do.

If you're not a taker then
i guess i've met my maker
as when there's a girl i fancy
there's no qualm to play her
yet you came backstage
and gave me tips for rehearsal
it's not the bravado they want to see
it's not the performance you should show
it's now hard to treat you like my audience
and do what i wish in the knowledge
that my moves are cool enough to follow.
Because your tips led to my confessions
of secrets that exposed deep parts of my soul.
and if i could have not told you i would of
but when i look at you i talk and just cant' stop.
and then i leave and wonder why it doesn't start.

You're in love with a poem of mine
that i wrote in two thousand and nine
you're wanting that, performance,
every time.
and for you i can't help say it right,
every time.
but i can only say what i was saying
then for so long.
A part of me will always be heartbroken
but when i see you the same lyrics have
been remixed to a different tune.
and I'm almost scared to utter the words
I assumed would never come.
That... I'm ready to move on.
and I'll kiss you tonight till the day comes
and i pray you kiss me with your eyes open
and i hope for the small things
it's wishful thinking-
internal monologues
that i call conversations
and my head goes in circles
and in this poem i hoped
to at least feel consolation
from this ventilation but it's
not working because
us not moving forward isn't
just my problem.

You're stuck in a trap.
In need of self-esteem as bad as
i need my mojo back.
What's bad- thinking your faults

will take us backwards- as if your

temper isn't attractive- as if the mixed tapes

were made by accident. As if your love

for an old lover wasn't what initially

brought us together- Alan shearers

pens on the screen couldn't make it clearer.
You're running for the through ball
but telling me you can't shoot

And all I've talked about is how i need you.

I'm as london as london is me
So I've never felt a need to act tough
my recent defeat left me weak
and now it's like I can't apologise enough
That doesn't mean I'm not
aware of what I'm worth.

yet all i've thought of was how i needed you
expectation blocked my present view
it'd all be easier if you could see you
through my eyes, then there'd be
no problem with us seeing each other.

Just trust you.