Oceanic tears

I could cry you a river,
You'd like that, no?
To drown yourself in the ecstasy,
To swim ashore in your appreciation.
I could cry you a river,
You'd like that, wouldn't you?
Everytime when you'd etch into me,
And everytime when I'd rinse off my sins,
Your remains would still be woven into me,
Maybe that is why your memory always win.
And now it's like I've never known a different way,
I've never known not to be insane.
On day's, I still round you up,
With a heart in my hand,
A little sanity I could've gathered,
If it wasn't for the knife with which you perforated.
With a Bleeding soul seeking to heal,
I could still bleed you river,
And you'd like that, or maybe not?
When the little peices of the soul would clog,
The adrenaline rush would be on pinch of fog,
A little by little I'd pop the pills,
Leaning on idiosyncrasy,
And a little questionable imagination,
My monster claws would dig onto me,
And I'll be diluting my love with vodka and whiskey,
And my skin with freckles underneath the concealers,
And a broken heart underneath a Starlite sky,
On illusions of movies and living a lie,
I'd still cry you a river,
In the sincerest child's smile,
And in your soul stirring art,
And in the magic of mundane,
You'd sit there to complain,
That I didn't die making it an ocean.

In which everything I write

In which everything I wrote became about you,
And everytime your name pops up, it becomes about love,
And everytime I shove the word 'love' out of my throat, it becomes about heartbreak,
And everytime I talk about a heartbreak, it all comes back to you.
In which every prose and every poem Instilled in my notebook,
And every heartbeat loud and clear,
Clear enough to convey it doesn't beat for love,
Loud enough to shout it won't stop over a heartbreak,
In which everything I write becomes about you.
It's not me, it really isn't.
My hands are a little selfish, you see?
And so is my mind sometimes.
So what is it even worth, if it is hope that is indeed lost,
Because when I talk about hope, it becomes about faith,
And when I talk about faith it's mostly about trust,
And when I talk about trust, it's about relationships,
And what good are relationships if not in love,
So when I talk about love, you shove out heartbreaks from your mouth,
And everytime I write about heartbreak, it all comes back to you.
But it isn't me, it really isn't.
My needs are selfish, you know?
I need my coffee hot and my my room cold,
And I need a pen to write and believe it's not about you.
But everytime I hold a pen, it's despair I jot,
And Despair is never about me but always about you,
Because where will I find despair if not in love,
And love can never be about loving myself now,  can it be?
So it isn't me, it really isn't.
My body is selfish, you know,
It wants water- boiling hot, to burn my sins off my skin,
And it wants the skin to be smooth,
Even if it means to rip off my soul along to make it worth the woo,
Because this body wants to feel beautiful,
But beautiful is painful,
And painful is love.
In which everytime it comes to love, it soon comes to heartbreak,
And when it comes to heartbreak, it comes to you.
But what good is beauty, if it is hope that is lost,
And what good is hope if it is love that is indeed lost,
And what good is love if it is defined by you and not me.