I love the way you put your stupid
hipster glasses on the collar of your
band t-shirts to fix your straight yet
messy brown hair that you haven't
washed in a week with a thick black
hair tie that you hate to wear on your
wrist when you don't need it because
it's so bulky so you put it in your front
pocket next to two strips of emergency
gum and a can of altiods which you
finish in a day and replace at night
I love when you air guitar in the
middle of Froyo Joe's most likely to a
song on The Front Bottoms CD you're
playing on your Walkman you got at
that one thrift store and everyone
stares at you then stares at me staring
at you, smiling and laughing so much.
And I love how you bow in the most
exaggerated way that anyone could
ever possibly bow because you air
guitared so impressively (you should
definitely start yourself a band) that
the unexpecting audience applauded
you for that marvelous performance
which definitely made their evening
And I love the way you look at me in
the train car when you're dragging me
to the next town because you finally
have enough money to go to the little
store that has the same name as that
one author you love and buy the
vintage coat that smells like moths and
depression because you want to wear
it and feel like a 1923 troubled rich
woman during an early midlife crisis.
I love when you tell me the things you
love about me at 3 a.m. in this diner
after you read to me that God-awful
poem about a woman who hates
shampoo and listens to blue grass
during all her classes and we're sitting
in this diner where all the food tastes
horribly like canola oil and salt and
I am immensely in love with you
Dec 26, 2017
Dec 26, 2017 at 7:29 PM UTC
Back to the others.
The sun gives louder compliments.
We cherish those with words so wrecked.
May we move.
Be free.
Continue to disappoint mother nature with our
idiocy
Nov 10, 2017
Nov 10, 2017 at 1:23 PM UTC
You let me go but I feel the warmth of your palm on mine. It's nice, I'll admit. I've never felt something so special and innocent.
But I don't want innocent. Not now. I don't want sweet writing. Your metaphors and happily-ever-after stories won't give me an
****** I want hot, luscious evening sweating in wild love sheets. I want embers between my legs when we stop to catch a breath.
I want to yearn for your lips when they aren't on my skin. I want to gasp when you touch me there. To see your smirk when I react as
you anticipate. I want unbreakable eye-contact as we dance across the mattress to no particular beat. I want to feel, see and taste
your soul through your magnificent body. So throw away your words for now and make me pant in positions undiscovered by
anyone. Make me finish so vehemently that the poor neighbors think I'm being maliciously murdered. That's all I need.
Sep 10, 2017
Sep 10, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
You're a bouqet of wildflowers
I'm an average red rose
We're an odd set of valentine gifts
You're a sky dive over California
I'm a picnic in the park
We're a weird combination on a date
You're a sunset on the Bahamas
I'm a hot day in Arizona
We're so far apart
You're everything I want to be and have
I'm nothing you even think about
We're something that just can't be done
Aug 10, 2017
Aug 10, 2017 at 5:08 PM UTC
I want you to dance
with me forever, breathe my
air and love the pretty
night as I do
to take in every
yellow sunset streaked with
orange and red
us for eternity or
for as long as you'll have me.
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 9:18 PM UTC
It's funny. The way I feel when I see fresh line paper. Untouched and calling to me. I love it. So many possiblilities. So many beautiful things to be written. What's funnier is that when I get a new notebook, it sits there for weeks. And so it stays untouched. The funniest thing is I love to write and get things out so I can look at them in proof that these words exist. In some way. Some form. I don't know why it's so difficult. I know enough metaphors and hyperboles. All the contents to make my writing swell. Readable. But I honestly think what throws me off is that no one is reading. No one is connecting with my writings like I do to Chibosky and O'Hara. No one is waiting to love my next chapter because they haven't even seen the first. I am uninspired with endless suroundings of inspiration. And no one falls in love with a bore.
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 5:55 PM UTC
Nothing can upset me more than the ground
●●●
Although, I've only touched the sky in few places
•••
The clouds tasted sweeter over the ocean
...
But you, your air, it's sweeter and I'd rather roam your skies
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 1:09 PM UTC