The truth is
I've never been so terrified before
In this life,
We never know what's in store
I'm a terrible mess
Left scattered on the floor
Because everything I've ever loved
Has walked out the door
So there I was,
I finally got the strength to build
Up some walls
They're made out of
Bricks and cement
They will never fall
But you came in
And somehow knocked them over
You promised me you'd be mine
Even when we're older
I fell for you so fast I can't
How wondeful you are
To take away my pain
I love you
As the sun loves the moon
You promised me
You'd be back soon
But right now you're so far
But I will always keep my door ajar
Just incase you come back home
For I don't believe its safe for you to roam
But I've never been so scared before
All I want is forever to be yours
I hope nothing gets in the way
I hope your feelings never fade away
I know for a fact you are better than me
Its so very easy to see
I'd give you the stars
Because you healed my scars
Please never leave me
There's no way I could breathe
I could never love again
My love for you is until the very end
You are my soul mate
And my fate
This is why I'm mortified at the thought of losing you baby
So will you always stay, maybe, just maybe?
Oh no, this is not some silly love letter.
This is not a letter about proclaiming my
school girl feelings and fantasies.
Oh no, this is so much more than that, my dear.
You are one of the things that dare to make me happy.
But, not the kind of happy that you would think of.
When I think of you, the happiness you bring to me is a
kind of comfort. I feel so laid back, yet excited, yet really,
really in love.
I mean, you also bring me sadness.
When I'm around you I feel at home.
When I am not around you,
I know I'll see you soon.
The sadness you bring me is fleeting.
But, it is only because I know you will
never love me back.
Like I said, you are my Christmas morning.
But, you are also my New Year's Eve.
The fleeting moment, the fireworks, and good laughs.
I could keep going, but why should I?
You will never see these poems anyways.
I have written hundreds of poems about you,
and you will never know how I truly feel.
And if you do know, then I am so, so sorry.
It is not fair to you, nor me.
But I simply cannot help myself.
You are my everything.
If you stand so very still you just may hear giddy little fireflies (dancing in the moon kissed sky) whisper across the wind a wondrous tale, otherwise kept hidden within their light.
Secrets from the Land of Never Here, a forgotten world where our most coveted dreams are born and shimmering starlight is no longer bound solely to the night.
Fascinating tales of an enchantress, the keeper of bewitched forest, so captivating that even the strongest of hearts fall helpless when caught in the magnetism of her gaze.
Where a hillside water fall displays capricious streams of color crashing down over smooth rocks, the mist creating a delicate rainbow haze.
A land where the wild imagines of poetic minds are captured and given life, where one's inner sprite is encouraged to frolic and flutter, never stifled or confined.
It is a world of endless wonders where each new dawn the brilliant sun rises up into the pristine sky singing out melodious song nourishing the canvas in your mind.
Where fantasy and reality mesh splendidly into the now and the allurement of what tomorrow may bring fills one with anticipation and excitement instead of worry and fear.
A refuge in which time sets forth with specific pace, never late, for one will find themselves right where they should be in the Land of Never Here.
the dead re-materialise by the side of the roadside
they are visible as though seen through a spotlight
it is a brutally interrogative light
that magnifies these corpses
makes them resemble the fragments
of suicidal terracotta pots
it magnifies them as symbolic equivalents
of their real image
its beam dazzles broken glass on the pavement
the breakage an impersonation of their cataclysm
causing the edges of seeing to hurt
and hearing to submerge itself
in a turquoise blue aquarium in fear
as speech sounds a primitive retreat
in its atavistic echoes of inveterate distraction
there is a disorder of blood stains on the road
where all emotional impulse is volatilised
causing a wild distillation of programmed anxiety
which in a different vocabulary becomes
a figment of somebody else's imagination
causing a sinister, stuporous, stagnancy of sound
in palpitations, dropped heartbeats, nausea, headaches
and a foul change in bowel function
"silence is worse; all truths that are kept silent become poisonous.” ― friedrich nietzsche
like poking the hornet's nest with a stick, you are a rose with stems and thorns so thick,
your skin is protection from oppression, keeping the world out of your private channels
all of which are static with distorted voices only science can pry through your cacophony
any evidence of who you are, i couldn't find with years of knowledge, a indestructible ship
could speak more evidence about why it was annihilated, obliterated, disintegrated under
the ocean for months at a time without any current survivors, if we wanted to know how,
what, and why, we would have to be led directly to the source by holding your hand
there is flaws in the equation, there will be a position where i will be put out into light
there is no way out of my mind, like i'm schizophrenic, if kryptonite killed superman,
can it kill the infectious virus spreading like wildfire through my veins, can i stop
worrying about when i will finally break down and reveal my secrets?
With noon’s grim call, I rise too late.
Condensed sunlight through greys and slate.
Awake with a steadfast hunger for sleep,
to push out these pains that so make me weep.
Each day is rushed to a climax too soon,
like some alleyway lover, ‘neath the moon.
‘Neath the moon, I give into wine;
vessel over my wholesome Tyne.
It’s all I have, to numb this pain,
pattern my thoughts, order my brain.
And with self-disgust, I discuss the past,
self-talk: The only friendship built to last.
I think on us all, and what we have been,
a filtered film-still, or some beauty queen,
when life weren’t fair, but fortunes true,
when the sky still ran that azure blue,
love no more than a hungry kiss,
some manufactured teenage bliss.
And lo, I’ve no friend to confide my heart,
each pound of muscle to create my art,
each longing of longing for reader’s love,
and my origins with the stars above.
No, reader, my dear, you’re all that is left,
to align my soul, frequently bereft.
So, read not this page as poetry,
but of the union of you and me,
we sit in life so clumsily
and yet with poise, we love so endlessly.
10.00 p.m - 12.8.13: my parents have told me to go to sleep and end up giving me a few more hours
12.00 a.m - 12.9.19: lying awake on the floor; thinking of you
4.00 a.m - 12.9.13: contemplating getting on my laptop and wait until the crack of dawn
6.00 a.m - 12.9.13: still thinking of you; still internally crying
7.00 a.m - 12.9.13: I have to pretend to be asleep, this is when my father wakes up
7.30 a.m - 12.9.13: "wake up" and get ready for school
8.00 a.m/8.41 a.m - 12.9.13: gym class, namely, missing you
8.42 a.m/9.24 a.m - 12.9.13: homeroom, still missing you
9.24 a.m/10.50 - 12.9.13: history and thinking of what would happen if I punch the teacher in her bitch ass face and leaving, as well as missing you
10.50 a.m /12.10 p.m - 12.9.13: math, seriously pondering if I should set myself on fire, I'd achieve the same feeling
12.40 p.m/2.05 p.m: literature and language arts so reading a Christmas Carol, so more time to miss you