I'll leave the window ajar
each night before I sleep
in case there's ever a chance
of you crawling back into this bed with me.
I'll walk through our memories with precaution
and try not to fall
as I tread water over spilt feelings
and an ocean worth of empty,
yet somehow still entirely full.
I just wish my hands
had something other than
themselves
to hold again.
I wish they had yours
to start a fire with
I wish my bed didn't have your
body
carved into it in braille
because I'm not blind,
and I don't read what I can't see
but ****
I wish I did.
I wish the ocean was a friend
rather than the inevitable enemy it poses as
I don't like the atomic bomb
that sets off
when reality hits back
even though I know you love
the mushroom cloud
that follows.
My room echoes something only you
and I
can hear and
replying to my own voice
is getting tiring.
The earth will still turn
but I don't know how long I can stand
still
I don't know how long I can bare
to stare at a world
without your eyes.
I don't know how I can stare at a world
that isn't mine.
I guess I'll go back
to kissing my own hands
and screaming echoes to a bed
that isn't warm
because I know what I've had
I know what I have
and I know I haven't lost
but I have loved
and I love
and I will
I do
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 6:52 AM UTC
when i hear people talk about true love,
they always describe oceans and grass,
clouds, sunshine
and rain.
sometimes i hear people talk about
pavements and traffic lights,
cigarettes and lighters,
and journeys
like you could even love someone with your mind
but hell, let me tell you this:
oceans dry up
grass gets cut
clouds float away
pavements find an end
cigarettes meet the filter
and your lighters will run out of gas
your mind?
you'll lose that in an instant
your love will be all you breathe and think for
all you live and yearn for
and the rain,
**** the rain
because the rain can stop falling
and god,
you can't
-a.p.s
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 7:48 PM UTC
She's the kind of girl.
Yes.
She's the kind of girl who could make your heart stop beating like a
bullet.
But could bring you back faster that your emergency room defibrillator.
She's the kind of girl who conducts the orchestra of hurricanes in your heart with just a glance from across a flooded room.
She's the kind of girl who makes use of your telescope eyes
to show you what your love will be
but can pull a shutter down too,
but only to save you.
The kind of girl who lights fires to keep you warm and not
to burn you down.
The kind of girl who holds you close without a dagger up her sleeve.
The kind of girl who holds you close whilst being an ocean away.
The kind of girl who would rip away your flesh and blood
to prove that you're more than what you're made of.
The kind of girl a failed skipping stone would fall into.
The kind of girl who holds you strong whilst being beaten down onto her own knees.
The kind of girl who lets her heart speak instead of her mouth.
The kind of girl whose eyes have experienced a more austere flood than you ever will.
The kind of girl who would take Cupid's mismatched arrow for you.
The kind of girl who would hold you still whilst an earthquake tears you from what you thought you knew and felt.
The kind of girl who breaks the mirrors which have held you captive for years.
The kind of girl who bites her fingernails, so nobody can remain underneath.
The kind of girl who believes that the heart is made for more than to pump blood.
The kind of girl who knows your lungs could never survive the flood.
The kind of girl who brings even the world to a halt.
The kind of girl who shouts from the sun to the moon,
and from the moon to the sun,
not because she understands,
but because she yearns for their love.
The kind of girl who possess wildfire hands.
The kind of girl you'd let burn you down.
The kind of girl.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 9:50 PM UTC
It was the year of my 14th birthday, when I first found that the word “go” had an entirely new meaning.
When I was young, “go” meant to run
go meant to run through the fields until your legs brought you to your own knees
go meant to strive for what you loved, and whatever you loved.
when I was fourteen, go remained as to run,
but to run away.
go meant to leave, with no living desire to
return.
go was synonymously my father’s clenched fists against the kitchen work surface
whilst my mother stood in her flesh and blood.
when i was 7,
i made love potions in my garden with flowers and water.
love was to fanatically involved with something.
love was to feed fuel to the fire,
that would light the way
love was life,
and life was love.
when I turned sixteen,
I went back out into that garden, and made my very own love potion
sticks and stones, which depicted the naivety of the words which supposedly would never hurt but made me feel more than even a
hurricane could.
Mud to represent the lost flowers from the light you took from within.
Love meant nothing more than the heartbreak that snuck up to stab you before Cupid could even hit you.
Love became the tears that my pillow felt on nights when I couldn’t hold in the flood.
Love represented the scrapes and grazes that my own hands gave me.
Unfamiliar words, like “sad, weak, loss and collateral" became friends, the friends that I hoped I would never make.
On my fourteenth birthday, I learnt of a new meaning for hold.
To hold, meant for me
only safety
and the earth to stop turning for just a moment, to give you
the chance to stand back up.
But on my fourteenth birthday,
to hold meant to hold captive,
as you grasped me in your vice
until my words couldn't be spoken,
and my heart screamed so ******* loudly
yet so quietly that the deaf could hear.
I'm approaching my seventeenth birthday,
and i'm scared to discover
what's next.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 9:26 PM UTC