riddle me this atheists: if god isn’t real then who is inside the kleenex box pushing up the next tissue
Most of the pain you’re dealing with are really just thoughts… ever think of that?
I’m sick of writing poetry
wasting and throwing myself away
with every word, I crave
to be his first thought when the sun comes up
and the aim of his sweetest gestures.
I’m desperate, wondering
what he’s thinking of when he’s looking at me,
and I wished he would pour his heart out
the way I do every night,
for the whole world to know
about the sparks and the heat he brings
when he gets too close to me.