Don't you dare
give me that stare
act like you care
You don't have the right to pretend
that in the end
You like me for my hands
As much as you just wanted to fuck me.
So don't hold my hand and talk to me like this
don't try to make me believe in the magic that doesn't exist
that when we were together you felt genuine bliss
like in the vast moments when our hands intertwined
you ever wanted to be mine
or that you'd ever let me define
as anything more than a static rhythm and rhyme
as anything more than a business exchange
or a game
i give you my feelings and you don't feel the same
it's not too late you haven't placed your bet
on how many months it'll take for you to get to my bed
get inside my head
all of the time i wasted for you is over
all of the feelings i hid away
all of the breath you took away
as i waited for you to text me hey
you've made me numb
stand in the line of other guys who've given me some
taken me under angel wings and deceived me
but this time I see
I don't trust your magic arms anymore
your fantastical eyes don't take me hostage anymore
and the emptiness i felt after i was filled with you inside me
never to trust
someone who tries to hold your hands
when they can't hold your words
you're a mastermind magician
you've helped me stop belieivng in the magic
i know magic behind love
and i don't believe in magic anymore
you shouldnt have to force a man to think about his life
but the times are gone when thinking men were thought about as right
the fear of the thoughtful man is rife
in a world where ignorance keeps dominations grip tight
We writers are insane.
All of us.
We revel in our own sad mess
While picking green grapes
Off the wallpaper,
Smecking away like mad
At the wondrous juices
Of the imaginary, judicial
We, like Hemingway,
Take our scotch in the morning
And our gin at night
And try with brutal, lashing effort
To make it through
We have put ourselves in shoes
We will never be able to walk in.
We must walk miles as
AIDS sufferers, as
Brutalizers of women.
We must deal with their pain
As if it were housed in our own entity of being.
J.D. Salinger wrote that
His literary son, Holden,
Wore a “people-shooting” hat and
Made it damn clear that he suffered from wild
And erratic fits of overwhelming depression.
Writing from a bunker
Far from his wife, kids and home,
His stories sparked murder in the hearts
Of already oppressed men
With “people-shooting” hats of their own.
We must toil with language;
Put it in the corner,
Love it, hate it,
Shift it and slave daily with it.
We must lose hours upon hours upon
Days of sleep
Before we find ourselves
Dangerously asleep at the wheel in front of us
In order to make the slightest change in our regular ways.
Our handwriting only becomes sloppier
And our words,
Kaysen, alone in a psych ward
With women who slept around and
Tried to maul each other,
To try to release the the demon
Boiling the very blood inside her veins.
But demons do not disappear easily
Neither do the tortuous memories.
They attempt to label me
With words of the disturbed.
Floods my synapses and neurons.
Happily urinates on my serotonin levels.
I bring myself to write
The effigy of the psycho
Day by day
As my pen scratches paper
And the doctors expect razor to scratch skin
Though it never has
And never will.
Writers are psychos.
We all are.
We remain the mad, psychotic, literate monsters
Who worm our ways
Into your head.
We nestle beside your dreams and fantasies,
Waiting to strike
And tear them apart or,
If you’re lucky,
Build them up.
A woman writer named Sylvia
Once put her head in the oven
Because the writer-demons were driving her to madness
And they wouldn’t leave her be.
Handling us is a torture
Only the most eloquent and experienced reader
I see sword in the eyes,
Demons in the skies
Love are lies
Innocent stare are darker guise
Those smiles are lies
They are nothing more than rotted corpse flies
Are those the beautiful skies
Or are the swords in my eyes.
I wasn't taking advantage of her vulnerability.
It certainly was not a pity fuck.
She was crying, and clinging.
It was the only way I knew of
To make her feel good.
To give her a release.
Does that make me a good man?
What makes a man?
I don't know.
It is never an issue,
Until it is uttered out loud.
Now we both know
That she will open her legs before she opens her heart.
I'll told her that is stupid,
And that she is not stupid,
But still beautiful.
Does that make me a good man?
What makes a man?
I don't know.
I'd make her mine if I could.
As far as she's concerned,
She belongs to the weeds on her front lawn.
And her father told her no matter how pretty it looks,
It will always be bad,
It will always be toxic inside
She never got over that.
So now she looks very pretty,
But she fills herself with vodka and cocaine and all things
Dear Flawless Fairy,
I write to You with good and bad news
First of all, on a positive note,
You are the moon
I can't tell You how great it feels
To finally find You
My sunshine saunter
Was a worthless wander
Before Your cool caress
Graced my heart
Now for the negative,
I no longer feel sad and blue
I know this sounds like I didn't lose and
But now I cannot write my frowns down
I only smile because You make everything worthwhile
I used to pen depression on paper
With sarcastic laughter pretending I enjoyed it
But I didn't
Though I wrote such heavy heartache
I couldn't wait for my clouds to break
Allowing me to shine on
Your beautiful face
So I regret to inform you all
I won't be pouring my tear filled soul out anymore
I know how much you enjoyed the pain
But I can't help but refrain from these failed feelings
I don't believe in them
I've been moonstruck at midnight
She once was crescent and
Now is full of my bright
I once was clouded and
Now She reflects my light
Back upon me
I'm so happy :)
She is my beautiful celestial body
She is my elegant flawless fairy <3
He didn't wait to say good bye it was easy to run and forget about everything.promise made were never kept it was lie after lie.an other text message to say he can not see me this weekend.
To busy drinking beer all night long my heart was breaking.dads don't hurt you or say you were a mistake that he can not change.i cried he laughed my heart became so cold.
As he walked away he didn't look back not even once I guess he will ruin someone else life.some day he will think about the things he did he'll be alone.drink to forget its all act as if I don't exist.
When I look back I don't cry any more thank you for making me a fighter.each day I get stronger while he grows weaker by the week.walking away was the best thing he did.