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i've never fit the standard
i've always been quite odd
and while i know that makes me different
i'm not necessarily flawed
because it's always for the wrong things
that the world tends to applaud
though i swear it's not intentional
i've never been conventional

my behaviors have no pattern
my colors have no scheme
when i'm asleep i'm thinking
and when i'm awake i dream
while the rest are all so silent
something inside me screams
i'm more than three-dimensional
i've never been conventional

you may find me confusing
you may not like me very well
that's something i understand
i'm a hot pink among pastels
still i think, no i believe
that eccentricities propel
the reason i'm ascensional is
i've never been conventional
We were once tangled
But all the ties that bind us
Have become a noose
what is it that we've shared, exactly?
twenty some odd nights
and a sky full of stars
nine sunsets
midnight and toast
hundreds of splinters
and true poetry, to be sure
but what of our hearts?
and the almost kiss?
have i only imagined your lingering glances?
or have you told me with your eyes?
if there's one thing i'm bad at
it's guessing
and if there's one thing i'm good at
it's asking questions
hoping that someday
you'll give me the answers
with your mouth
for i'm a much better writer
than a reader of eyes
and even i can't put into words
what exactly we have shared
I have written you one-hundred and twenty-six love poems
On the backs of forgotten receipts and used napkins
Among scribbled equations on calculus exams
And yet still you do not care for me enough
To even write my name
On the front of a tiny strip of paper
Let alone the palm of your hand
Or where I would like it to be
At the center of your heart
The stars
Once ceaseless
Infinite
Now sprinkle the dark
As if accidents
Tiny holes
Peppering the black
With their hopeful presence ​

Only the brightest are permitted to shine
While the rest lay trapped  
Behind the blanket of dusk
Which is cool upon the skin
And warm within my heart

But I will break it open
Uncaging the sky
Allowing weaker stars to see the world
Before dawn comes again

Awestruck
I will breathe them in
Before back out
Into the night
They will ascend
  Oct 2016 the Voice Without
Rapunzoll
my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.
© copyright

NOTE: i've noticed people sharing this to other sites without having spoken to me about it beforehand, I do not give permission for this and all poems are copyright, keep this in mind.

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my mother never actually said this to me, but i figure i'll probably end up saying it one day if i have children.

it's pessimistic yes, but i know there are exceptions. please don't take to heart. it's more a criticism of myself than all poets. :)
The inspiration died
When the summer ended
Now my poems are like the shirt that my dad needs mended
Ripped apart at the seams as if cotton blended
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