i would much rather see dried tears on my pillow than another person in the same bed with me.
not putting more strain on an already broken and irrepairable heart by letting someone in again.
loneliness comforts more than the warmth of another nowadays and that’s how i will stay.
that is the way it’ll remain.
a view through the windowpane was the last thing she left
added to the silhouette of a bloodstain on the bed we use to share where she stole my heart as i laid
covered by sheets still felt by my soul.
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 7:32 PM UTC
i love me
do you?
could you ever, truly?
the way you make me feel is
unsettlingly unruly towards self
i couldn’t hurt you the way you’ve done me
it’s not in the cards nor my heart
for it belongs to you.
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 7:38 PM UTC
I tend to do this unforgiving
method of maddness when it comes to writing
I'll start and stop, repeating onto new work
unfinishing the last.
incomplete as each piece may be,
the brain is scattered
lost and afraid, it'll never feel the same way.
connected to what new beginnings
may be.
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 1:15 AM UTC
I could tell you more about the hurt
inflicted into us by what we thought was love
and to find it be an inevitable pain
followed by tears that flow off the face
and the guilt that maybe it was out fault.
we NEVER get the love we deserve,
manipulated and programmed the generational stigma
to love one more than yourself and unfulfilling
what we as the human race should've
been instilled with was self love.
too busy lost in the social media haze of
losing yourself into everything that we
forget to love ourselves
forgetting we have to do that before we
can truly love any one person.
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 5:55 PM UTC
The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.
When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.
If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.
But most people don’t see it.
Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.
The poet lives in two different worlds.
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 3:36 PM UTC
i write them in my notes
keep them like postcards
i cannot bring myself to send
i want to tell you i'm sorry
because i am
i'm really sorry
i'm sorry
that was the best we could do
i'm sorry
that i asked too much of you
i'm sorry
i acted so selfish
i'm sorry
it has taken me so long
i'm sorry
i cannot bring myself to send
the **** postcard
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 3:28 PM UTC
I planted a seed
I watched it grow.
I watered it daily
I loved it so.
Every morning I opened my eyes
So I could admire you.
And you used to look back at me
and you admired me too.
But I looked to the horizon,
and I saw death in the sky.
Then, the storm took you away from me
and I couldn't understand why.
It's been a long time
since I lost my sweet, pretty flower
Sometimes I want to plant a new one
But I don't think it will grow.
Sometimes I feel like I've already planted one
Other times I feel like I never did.
Maybe I planted it but never watered it.
I don't really know.
I want to ask you to be my sweet, pretty flower
But I think I forgot how.
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 7:04 PM UTC
.
As his words flow like honey onto the page
with a nod of approval from a linguistic sage.
Long gone are the days when a woman's plays
would look at the poet with a romantic gaze.
His sad verse no longer makes her cry,
his love poems fail to lift her heart to fly.
Her attention wanders like a lonely voice
away from sanctuary, towards more choice.
And as his pen drifts across a blank page
he remembers the ladies, being centre stage,
the looks of adoration in a beautiful face,
deep pools of experience for his art to embrace.
Melancholic he dips his pen again and tries,
imagination musing her gorgeous ****** eyes.
But the words won't flow, so defeated he cries,
and arranges poets tears into convenient lies.
© Pagan Paul (2017/18)
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 4:48 PM UTC
She reminded me of a summertime story that I
never finished
it's not that my mind wasn't right but time won't permit
we kicked like a pair of shoes, you know? the classics
it wasn't that she ran through my mind she was always there
but when it came time LIFE showed us that it wasn't fair
never in a dream because she was hard to believe in with the elegance of her mighty spirit I heard a voice and thought it wasn't clear, t'was a thought I didn't wanna hear..
"she has a man"
was a phrase I couldn't understand and though I hadn't known him,
it wasn't apart of MY plan.
I knew she felt what I did in every minute
couldn't leave each other side without that breathless moment
unforeseen what I saw but it true, that call,
she still remained the same as if it wasn't at all drowned
in what was the unforeseen, didn't deserve anything but more than what stood before her, remembering all of what could be
between her and me.
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC