jeremy-2 - Hello Poetry

I feel strangely drained like a bleached Polaroid taken in the dark. Life is largely color/less and so god **** tiring. If I close my eyes the black space between flickers gets longer and longer. Maybe if I close them hard enough I'll lose years instead of minutes. Everything I once loved is dull and so god **** color/less.

0

Jul 29, 2013

Jul 29, 2013 at 11:35 PM UTC

color/less

I feel strangely drained like a bleached Polaroid taken in the dark. Life is largely color/less and so god **** tiring. If I close my eyes the black space between flickers gets longer and longer. Maybe if I close them hard enough I'll lose years instead of minutes. Everything I once loved is dull and so god **** color/less.

20

whenever I look at you there's a little tingle in the back of my spine like birds playing on telephone wires not quite electric but a little jumpy, sweet, rushing sounds in my ears; a little pulse in the back of my throat a little knot in my lungs where someone I used to know used to live and you come in with your magic hands and you reach into my chest and unravel so I can breathe

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Jun 9, 2013

Jun 9, 2013 at 4:02 AM UTC

I don't really know what I'm talking about

whenever I look at you there's a little tingle in the back of my spine like birds playing on telephone wires not quite electric but a little jumpy, sweet, rushing sounds in my ears; a little pulse in the back of my throat a little knot in my lungs where someone I used to know used to live and you come in with your magic hands and you reach into my chest and unravel so I can breathe

12

isn't it weird how people attach beauty to certain objects or certain things, or certain places all I'm saying is the sound of falling rain doesn't knock the breath out of my chest the way your fingernails do

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Jun 4, 2013

Jun 4, 2013 at 7:59 AM UTC

things I find strange vol. 1

isn't it weird how people attach beauty to certain objects or certain things, or certain places all I'm saying is the sound of falling rain doesn't knock the breath out of my chest the way your fingernails do

6

Its that time of night when all I do is try to write but all that comes out is words and not WORDS Everything is funnier in this funny time of night and yet nothing has made you want to cry so hard in your life Isn't everyone lonely in this lonely time of night but a thousand other people are lonely tonight Lets all be lonely together It's getting to that time of night when the numbness becomes unbearably light I'm afraid I'm starting to feel again and believe me I've never wanted to understand why all our lives end It's finally that time of night when blood looks blue and not red

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May 20, 2013

May 20, 2013 at 11:06 AM UTC

that time of night

Its that time of night when all I do is try to write but all that comes out is words and not WORDS Everything is funnier in this funny time of night and yet nothing has made you want to cry so hard in your life Isn't everyone lonely in this lonely time of night but a thousand other people are lonely tonight Lets all be lonely together It's getting to that time of night when the numbness becomes unbearably light I'm afraid I'm starting to feel again and believe me I've never wanted to understand why all our lives end It's finally that time of night when blood looks blue and not red

23

do you know how many times i've had to suffer through the same tired metaphors over and over and over again. put down your tears and your stars and your cigarettes and your coffee and your waves and your skies and your hearts and your bruises and pick up your pen and write something worth living for god **** it. because i haven't read a poem from the heart in years and all your elaborate conceits and sadness and promises and "i love you"s and lips and dreams are getting on my ******* nerves. rage against the stereotypes and conventions and rage against Petrarchan and Romantic and Post ******* Modern love. Don't write something because you feel like it. Write something because you would explode if you didnt

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May 19, 2013

May 19, 2013 at 5:34 AM UTC

your writing is as shallow as your soul

do you know how many times i've had to suffer through the same tired metaphors over and over and over again. put down your tears and your stars and your cigarettes and your coffee and your waves and your skies and your hearts and your bruises and pick up your pen and write something worth living for god **** it. because i haven't read a poem from the heart in years and all your elaborate conceits and sadness and promises and "i love you"s and lips and dreams are getting on my ******* nerves. rage against the stereotypes and conventions and rage against Petrarchan and Romantic and Post ******* Modern love. Don't write something because you feel like it. Write something because you would explode if you didnt

16

and for a moment there our hands almost touched but I didn't know what to say it was late and we were both drunk the sky had been dark for hours and everyone inside the house was loud and I could barely hear myself think and I wanted to tell you so much it hurt my chest and the ice unfolded in my stomach and killed all the butterflies but I knew you'd never think of me that way and so we just sat on the railing outside some kid's house and I swallowed all the love I felt for you bitter and writhing and alive in my throat and stayed silent as the sun came up

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May 18, 2013

May 18, 2013 at 7:35 AM UTC

it might have been something

and for a moment there our hands almost touched but I didn't know what to say it was late and we were both drunk the sky had been dark for hours and everyone inside the house was loud and I could barely hear myself think and I wanted to tell you so much it hurt my chest and the ice unfolded in my stomach and killed all the butterflies but I knew you'd never think of me that way and so we just sat on the railing outside some kid's house and I swallowed all the love I felt for you bitter and writhing and alive in my throat and stayed silent as the sun came up

16

I'll take all the love you never returned and hang it like a noose around my neck

0

May 17, 2013

May 17, 2013 at 6:24 AM UTC

*dead hang*

I'll take all the love you never returned and hang it like a noose around my neck

4

the thing about school is it kills beauty one does not learn to appreciate a painting by analyzing brushstrokes, shading, one does not learn to appreciate a poem by analyzing metaphors, similes form, structure, rhyme. one does not learn to appreciate a sonata by analyzing cadence, melody rhythm, harmony we love art because when we look at a painting, we see life in its most basic form. we love literature because when we read a poem, we understand the beauty of the world. we love music because when we listen to a sonata, we can hear the fabric of the universe unravelling. dear teacher you cannot teach us these things because we feel the earth in our bones we hear the wind and it echoes in our soul we understand the way the sunlight falls over each and every one of us and we know what it feels like to be alone to be alive because that is how the world works you cannot teach us how to love one does not learn how to breathe you just do

0

May 15, 2013

May 15, 2013 at 8:02 AM UTC

don't try to teach me how to breathe

the thing about school is it kills beauty one does not learn to appreciate a painting by analyzing brushstrokes, shading, one does not learn to appreciate a poem by analyzing metaphors, similes form, structure, rhyme. one does not learn to appreciate a sonata by analyzing cadence, melody rhythm, harmony we love art because when we look at a painting, we see life in its most basic form. we love literature because when we read a poem, we understand the beauty of the world. we love music because when we listen to a sonata, we can hear the fabric of the universe unravelling. dear teacher you cannot teach us these things because we feel the earth in our bones we hear the wind and it echoes in our soul we understand the way the sunlight falls over each and every one of us and we know what it feels like to be alone to be alive because that is how the world works you cannot teach us how to love one does not learn how to breathe you just do

34

She's the kind of girl who would walk up to a stranger and kiss him or her on the mouth and not give a **** what anyone else thought And if she could, she'd make every single one of her dreams come true, even the nightmares. And night after night she finds comfort in the arms of strangers and cigarettes and cheap wine. And she'd do anything to stop feeling so ******* lonely. So ******* empty. So ******* numb. She's the kind of girl that would set fire to her hair just to feel alive.

0

May 14, 2013

May 14, 2013 at 12:20 AM UTC

she's the kind of girl

She's the kind of girl who would walk up to a stranger and kiss him or her on the mouth and not give a **** what anyone else thought And if she could, she'd make every single one of her dreams come true, even the nightmares. And night after night she finds comfort in the arms of strangers and cigarettes and cheap wine. And she'd do anything to stop feeling so ******* lonely. So ******* empty. So ******* numb. She's the kind of girl that would set fire to her hair just to feel alive.

18

like the leaves or branches of the mighty oak tree. like the petals of the rose, or the lilac or lily. like the gathering tears on your eyelash's ridge like night, or rain or the broken boy on the bridge we must all eventually fall.

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May 13, 2013

May 13, 2013 at 2:46 AM UTC

fall

like the leaves or branches of the mighty oak tree. like the petals of the rose, or the lilac or lily. like the gathering tears on your eyelash's ridge like night, or rain or the broken boy on the bridge we must all eventually fall.

14