The loneliest summer with a boatload of goodbye
with a non existent voice of whisper, I wished the new love away
never knowing that the infatuation could make me feel so high
Sitting with words stumbling over shot glasses to forget that day
smoking cigarettes because they reminisce of your scent yet lie
but like love, scents burn bitter sweet sensation
nothing and everything I never again confide
but I wish not remember that changing season confrontation
knowing you were not mundane thought so moon phase new
take that lipstick off my lips as easily as you can keep your word
true colors release, as hostility grew
living in your life -now- off only what I heard
scared to speak three words, eight letters feel
manipulation to keep always as need
promise of nature that you would not leave scars to heal
but you dear knew I loved you, why did you need power to succeed
in case you feel despair, you still twist my mind
leave me with a solitary life, not ready to let this go
i'm scared that infatuated feeling will be hard to find
still hung up like rope, melting low
still hear that voice speaking soft almost speech but less
the loneliest summer with a boatload of goodbye
I still love you, this is the coffee stained paper confess
never knowing that infatuation could make me feel so high
Trying to avoid thinking of you does nothing
but displace your empty shape and weight in water
between the double glazing of my skull. I tried
to find a better approach, not the cliché of
my tongue returning to the place of a missing tooth,
more like learning to chew on the wrong side
of my face to avoid the pain, which forces me
to admit that I never had it pulled. It takes four
vocal cords to make a sound, four days of silence
to start missing your voice, waking up
to a staggering distance from yourself, chemically
induced coma to get you through another day
of this semi-synthetic pain of being awake - oh
let's be anxious together I already know
the workings of your brain far better
than I should this might fall into a questionable
category, always being judged by pain sensitivity
(I've grown immune to medication but I think
I'll manage somehow) toothache, laryngitis,
the idea of you.
imagination is a tricky thing.
i start to believe fantasy over reality;
warping throwaway glances into starving stares,
the most dangerous game to play is the one
is it a beautiful tragedy to fall
for a tragic beauty, or
is it a dark comedy of sorts
with the maniacal god who takes
ink to paper laughing as he seals my fate
inside a drama i never asked to be a part of?
are run-on sentences meaningful
or a sign of weakness?
is poetry meant to morph your sorrow
into a half-baked, blurry perspective
on the life (you want to, but can't) live?
perhaps it is;
it seems it's only through words
that i can live.
only through words
can i have a pretty girl's eyes staring
at mine, can have
a hand itching to be in mine.
Our eyes are forever searching for something beautiful,
longing for its sudden appearance until we can wrap our arms around it and watch it suffocate.
Die in our tiresome grip.
Not by choice, no.
How many times have you been exposed to the night sky?
How many times have you looked up and admired its beauty?
How many poems have been written about it's moon, it's stars?
Constellations you've depicted with your best friend at age eleven.
You're 15, you're 19, you're 25. It's still there.
Unattainable as ever.
Beautiful. As. Ever.
People are not like that.
People are beautiful until you see through their soft skin,
and fall into the creases of their skin;
break through scar tissue
trip and fall through the cracks of their forced smiles.
People are beautiful until you can no longer face the tragedy of their lives,
can no longer deal with the burden of what you once would have died for.
No, definitely not.
People should not be disposable.
They are not the socks you toss away in disgust, after a long day of breaking a sweat.
They are not the gift wrap around your new Macbook Air,
torn and ripped to shreds until you finally get to the good part.
I know this, I do.
So do you.
But I cannot help myself.
You cannot help yourself.
Human nature is a cruelty of some sort.
If I believed in a Hell,
I would say that boredom is the Devil's advocate.
but her thighs told me otherwise.
a mask over her demeanor
so no one could realize,
the pain she bestowed
when drowning under water...
her eyes were timed like an
hourglass waiting for time to un-wine
her eyes told a story of grief,
disbelief, and that she needed some relief,
the darkness her eyes beheld,
were like the dark side of the moon.
she never cried, kept a smile on her face,
no one ever knew the secrets she consumed
her wrist had scars,
as deep as the ocean
the blood was running like
the water of a thousand potions.
i can admit i miss your presence,
your beautiful smile,
and how your aura glowed in the darkness.
i wish you never committed suicide that summer morning...
The footsteps echoed on cobblestones
When a chime rang ten of the clock,
As a sailor making his way back home
Was walking up from the dock,
It was cold and dark for the lights were out
And the street was wet with the rain,
When he came to an old red telephone box
At the side of a narrow lane.
The clouds were black and they opened up
So he stepped in out of the wet,
Dropped his swag as it turned to hail
And lit up a cigarette,
The box was ancient, was George the Fifth
And hadn’t been used for years,
But stood in a lane that time forgot
When the rot set in, and worse.
For most of the houses were boarded up
And the weeds had grown outside,
Some had embarked for a tree-lined park
And some of the others died,
It was lonely there in the dark of night
As the sailor waited, he sang,
But stubbed his cigarette out in fright
When the telephone next to him rang.
He stared at it for a while before
He raised it, stopping the bell,
It had an echoing, ghostly sound
Like you hear in a deep sea shell,
The sound of sobbing came to his ear
And he cried, ‘Who’s there, what’s wrong?’
‘Oh God, I’ve waited forever my dear,
I’m locked in the basement, Tom!’
The sailor said that he wasn’t Tom
But she didn’t appear to hear,
‘He’s got an axe, attacking the door,
Be quick or he’ll kill me, dear!’
The sailor didn’t know what to say
But a chill ran up his spine,
‘Tell me, what’s your address,’ he said
‘Before you run out of time!’
‘I’m straight across from the telephone box,
You usually meet me here,
He’s found us out, and he screams and shouts
That he’ll kill you as well, my dear!
He just came home from a spell at sea
And called me a cheating whore,
If you don’t come over and rescue me
He’ll have smashed his way through the door.’
The sailor wanted to say, ‘Enough!
It’s nothing to do with me,’
But flew on out of the telephone box,
Leapt over a fallen tree,
He raced right in through the open door
And he called, ‘I’m here, just wait!’
Then made his way to the cellar door
But all he could feel was hate.
The door was shattered, he walked right in
It was dark, there wasn’t a light,
He felt around for a candle, lit
And stared at the terrible sight.
A man lay dead on the basement floor
Where an axe had taken his life,
And there with her throat like an open sore
Was the body of his dear wife.
He staggered, stopped, and fell to his knees
And sobbed like a man insane,
‘Oh God, it’s true, I did this to you,
But my mind’s been playing games.
I thought if I went away to sea
I’d return to find they were dreams…’
As he sliced a razor across his throat
He thought, ‘Life’s not what it seems!’
David Lewis Paget
The hopeless romantic plays the role of hoping for romance
While the worthless beggar begs for worthless change
Spark belief that we can be more than the eye sees
It strikes me, brief, that I don't want what I can't see
Can't see, so I can't believe; it's insane, to dream
Drink from the bottle, it's hollow after we swallow
Smash the bottle in my face, I'm smashed, so I space
Shards of glass cut my heart, It's hard to see, it's so dark
I stumble and I bleed, these streams of my being
The hopeless romantic plays the role of hoping for romance
While the frantic take away all that they can manage
Smiles stolen like kisses in the night, hold on for your life
Like a car crossing lanes, I'm panicked til' we hit the brakes
Break our necks in the race, let our souls explore outer space
Where I'll try to align the stars, to catch your eye
Beautifully catching the light, reflecting hopes and dreams
Of the hopeless romantic buried inside of me