Does it feel good to be right about me?
You always thought I hadn’t changed
I bet it feels good to be right about me
You always had such little faith
11 days doesn’t seem that long
But, it **** sure did for me
I knew the day that I gave in
To how I used to be
Would be the day you finally called me
That day that I gave in
I was laying down across his chest
Wrapped in sheets and sin
The moment that I hung up
The silence killed my heart
I cried on the drive, and when I got home
I tore myself apart
I told you about what happened
You deserved the truth
There was silence on the line
Then your voice was small, and blue
“I gotta go,” you told me
And then you hung up the phone
I knew right then and there
I was meant to be alone.
Jan 2, 2018
Jan 2, 2018 at 4:50 PM UTC
It's 2:26 in the morning, and God, I miss you.
It's pathetic, really.
I look forward to seeing you, when I do, time passes slowly, but too quickly.
As you walk away, or I walk away (whatever), I already miss you.
Sometimes I hold my pillow like it's a person, and pretend it's you.
I think about falling asleep next to you a lot.
I felt so guilty that night, but now I don't really care.
All I know is that somewhere along the line, the universe created something where half of it went to you, and the other half went to me.
I'm in love with your crazy.
It almost makes me feel normal.
We're like a solar eclipse.
The darkness far outweighs the light, but somehow everyone still thinks it's beautiful.
I didn't kiss you enough tonight.
I never do.
The second you pull away, and there's space in between us again, I'm starving for your touch.
A lot of the time you preface your statements with, "Not trying to be weird."
I think that's funny every time because what follows that statement is almost always my thoughts exactly.
Whatever you do to me that you think is weird, or confusing, or whatever, I only have one request:
don't stop.
.
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 2:19 AM UTC
So tell me another beautiful lie
Tell me everything I want to hear
Won't you lay here by my side?
I want to **** away all my fear
-b.d.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 10:31 PM UTC
I'm an alcoholic
drug addict
and this ****
doesn't have a thing on
you.
e.s.
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 8:57 AM UTC
You never used to inspire me to write.
When I met you, I wished so badly that my writer's block would disappear and I could compose a poem of all the feelings I had for you.
But you know what they say,
Be careful what you wish for.
Because now I can't stop.
Now, the thought of you is so inspiring that all I want to do is write and write and write and write and write and write and write.
Your gorgeous tan skin and bright blue-green eyes force my fingers on the keys to keep going, until my nails are broken and my fingertips are raw.
You never used to make me feel creative.
What happened?
I fell in love.
I dove into the lake of love, heart first,
not realizing that I would never escape it.
I didn't want to escape the canal boat floating down the river of devotion so smoothly.
I should've gotten out when I could.
Little did I know that a shark lingered in that river.
A Great White Shark, ready to lunge at my exposed heart, that rested on my sleeve.
Although what I realize now is,
Sharks only live in the ocean.
The stinging pain in my chest isn't an aquatic beast.
It's love itself,
Trying to rip my heart from my chest and tear it to pieces, before my very eyes.
Love.
The destructive force that tricked me into falling for its lies.
Its promises of joy and happiness,
devotion and fondness.
The infatuation and lust that love guaranteed was all a ploy.
A ploy to catch me in its web, waiting for the spider itself to eat me alive.
You never used to inspire me to write.
But now you're my muse.
I wish I was smarter than this.
I wish I didn't fall in love with your kind heart and your gentle soul.
But remember, be careful what you wish for.
Because maybe, if I hadn't wished in the first place,
My heart wouldn't be so heavy,
And my hands wouldn't be numb from writing endless insignificant love letters to you.
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 8:54 AM UTC
I've been keeping my hair short
Because you liked it long,
And I'm not strong enough
To relive the feeling I got
When you ran your hands through it.
So I'll continue to cut off
The ends that are dead
Because you are too
And it makes me feel closer to you
Somehow.
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
You made a poet fall in love with you
And expected her not to write sonnets about your eyes
Haikus about the way you kissed her in the moonlight
Expected the fire in her heart not to inspire couplets
You made a poet fall in love with you, and when you left
Expected her not to write pages about the ache in her chest
Write a soliloquy dedicated to her tears
Expected her not to feel every gut wrenching moment of the pen hitting paper like your words hit her in the most vulnerable places of her mind.
You made a poet fall in love with you, and you expected her to be silent.
That is no fault of hers.
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 10:43 AM UTC
dating a writer
is like guessing the weather.
you think you know what you'll get,
but you never do.
you never know
because
she'll create a hero
from your weaknesses
and she'll write a great character,
from every last flaw.
she'll create a thousand plots
from your worst nightmares.
she'll take every last thing you hate
and create something you'll love.
she'll turn your anger
into confessions of adoration,
and she'll make you,
everything you're not.
but worst of all,
she'll leave you wondering-
is it you she's in love with,
or things she's created from you?
but here's the beauty of it:
if you date a writer,
you'll never die.
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
This one goes to the real poets.
To those who decide to carry the world on their own.
To those who carry hell in their head and a graveyard of lost love stories in their heart
To the brave ones who fight darkness with darkness.
Tho those who the only answer they seek from a god is if there's eternal life for their loved ones, because they know there's no space for them in that paradise.
To those who know that suffering is the most humane feeling there is.
To those who loved and hated the wrong person.
This goes to Lorca isolated, hiding in a closet in New York.
To Unamuno craving to believe in something impossible.
To Quiroga drinking the poison of his sorrow at a hospital.
To Becquer and Espino for dying so young.
To Neruda for cheating on himself so many times.
To Machados' lost spirit.
To Marquez and his melancholic ******
To Poe's tormented soul and his raven.
To Shakespeare and his Juliet.
To Dante and his story of woe.
This goes for the only beings who can live with a hell inside of them, and still manage to write heavenly things for those in need to read.
This one's for us.
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 10:39 AM UTC