When the lights go down at the end of the night,
and I can't sweep you off of your feet,
Will you still love me?
When the lights go down at the end of the night,
and the relationship begins to sink,
Will you go down with me?
When the lights go down at the end of the night,
and I'm no longer the crop of the cream,
Will you still pick out me?
When the lights go down at the end of the night,
And I am no longer me,
Will you please tell me?
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 3:39 PM UTC
She's painted the most beautiful portraits of life.
Where a bird's song is the only drug,
Dry leaves crunching the only violence.
Love is the only wildfire,
And she is the spark.
The only problem is:
I'm not in that portrait.
But it was not always that way.
I accompanied her in that portrait,
the Robin to her Batman,
the yin to her yang,
the boom to her bang.
I was painted over and replaced.
Because after all,
all paint fades.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 10:55 PM UTC
she was a poet,
and he was her pen.
in him,
she always found words to write,
songs to sing,
thoughts to think.
he'd smile,
and kiss her softly,
and say,
"write me a poem."
and she would.
she'd put poe,
and whitman,
and shakespeare to shame,
and she'd write a poem that made his eyes water.
she'd compare him
to a rose with no thorns,
a book with no end,
a world with no poverty --
the things we all wish for,
but can never attain.
//
he asked her one day,
"what am i?"
and so she picked up her pen,
and began the usual:
*you are the shining sun after a hurricane,
with rays that open the eyes of the blind.*
but he stopped her after those two lines,
and said that this time,
he didn't want any metaphors,
or similes,
or analogies.
he wanted the truth.
and so on that night,
as he slept,
the poet picked up her pen,
and she wrote.
she wrote,
then thought better of it,
then started over again,
and this cycle continued well into the early hours of the morning,
until suddenly,
she wrote, frantic,
*if i can't love you for what you really are,
have i ever really loved you at all?*
this, too,
she thought better of,
condemning it to the trash.
the next morning the poet was gone,
her final work a mere two words:
i'm sorry.
(a.m.)
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
What is there to do,
When the person you care most about
Doesn't care back?
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
Love is the conniving wolf dressed as an innocent sheep.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 4:46 PM UTC
Why?
Why would you leave me in a dead silence?
*A place where my every demon lies.*
A place with too much room for speculation.
A place where the knife burrows itself ever so close to my heart.
A place where injustices swirl.
A place with no hope to love that girl
I check for a response, to find none.
She reads and then leaves.
It takes two to have a conversation.
It takes two to be in a relationship.
But, hell I guess I'm not the right one.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC
Why do you let him hug you?
Why do you let him touch you?
Why don't you want me to confront him?
Because he is only a friend.
When our relationship came to an end,
You went crawling back to him.
What a great friend
who took you from me.
And left me to die in the end.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 4:10 PM UTC
I stand at less than 5 feet,
yet I seem tall.
When I am faced every morning,
with a decision, it depends on my height.
Am I willing to shrink again,
return to the view of the forgotten world?
I never fail to fall,
When I try to stand taller.
So sometimes I wonder,
who my oppressor might be.
What is the invisible roof,
that limits my growth.
That roof is no other than myself.
I've decided to stay down here
in the forgotten world.
To avoid entering
a whole new world of hurt.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 7:13 AM UTC