lilylove - Hello Poetry

A Tale of Two Cities, Marie Antoinette, Les Misérables, Populaire and Jacqueline Boyer— Van Gogh and Monet and all things the Louvre— Louise Labé and Louis Aragon, Camus, Voltaire, Baudelaire… I’ve been breathing in pieces of France, Eating baguettes, Dreaming of their kisses, Committing the curl of their words to memory, To maybe find out just why they say the French love better. Maybe if I’ve established the impartiality to the Eiffel tower and the familiarity of romantic cheek-and-cheek-kiss greets, I will grin under the Parisian Moon, whispering with some curls of my own: Je suis heureux.

0

Jun 6, 2014

Jun 6, 2014 at 11:05 PM UTC

French and Love

A Tale of Two Cities, Marie Antoinette, Les Misérables, Populaire and Jacqueline Boyer— Van Gogh and Monet and all things the Louvre— Louise Labé and Louis Aragon, Camus, Voltaire, Baudelaire… I’ve been breathing in pieces of France, Eating baguettes, Dreaming of their kisses, Committing the curl of their words to memory, To maybe find out just why they say the French love better. Maybe if I’ve established the impartiality to the Eiffel tower and the familiarity of romantic cheek-and-cheek-kiss greets, I will grin under the Parisian Moon, whispering with some curls of my own: Je suis heureux.

13

The fact that I got under your skin may in correlation mean that you still may be under mine. A stalemate that will perhaps dissipate in time. I'm already over it.

0

May 31, 2014

May 31, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC

More Sickly Than Sweet.

The fact that I got under your skin may in correlation mean that you still may be under mine. A stalemate that will perhaps dissipate in time. I'm already over it.

3

I feel as though I'd felt so many feels on these latent, impassioned, sentimental feelings that I reached a breaking point of feeling bad feelings and now after all of that feeling, I've lost the ability to feel about it anymore, in any kind of regard. I'm numbed to the mere thought of you. And that's a new feeling.

0

Mar 10, 2014

Mar 10, 2014 at 8:14 PM UTC

The Feels (and lack thereof)

I feel as though I'd felt so many feels on these latent, impassioned, sentimental feelings that I reached a breaking point of feeling bad feelings and now after all of that feeling, I've lost the ability to feel about it anymore, in any kind of regard. I'm numbed to the mere thought of you. And that's a new feeling.

2

From over five thousand to less than five: I feel like it’s safe to say that the physical distance has officially been closed, though I’m laughing at the irony that is my life, for so much has changed since I first dreamt of this moment, and I’m wondering if any other kind of closeness would ever possibly ensue (though very much ambiguous, I’m thinking no). So much is different, and I’m only musing, entertained by how circumstance has been presented, how much of myself has been altered, how estranged I feel that I’ve taken myself so far for the sake of pursuing an idea. I’m giddy at not knowing, enthralled by delicious obscurity, fused with throes of adrenaline at mere contemplation of potential reconciliation, though unperturbed wholeheartedly by the threat of rejection, because my heart is no longer in your hands. It belongs to myself again; I scooped it up from off the floor after you let it go, and I’m empowered by the independence instilled within my own soul. I will not break my own heart. But we are no longer five thousand miles apart—less than five, even, and five months ago that self that loved you so profoundly and desperately deserves some kind of closure, and this new, strong self I’ve constructed has enough conviction and determination to coddle the old one if things go awry. But this travel, since circumstance has changed so greatly lately, is no longer about you. You are not my sun, nor my moon—merely a constellation that, were I to get distracted, I can lose sight of easily, can confuse your luminescent patterns with the chaotic translation of stars around you. If you send me away, shove a middle finger at my face, I’ll melt the cold chip with self-love and graciously enthrall myself with the enchantment of travel. Whatever the outcome, I can’t lose.

0

Mar 2, 2014

Mar 2, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC

A Motif of Fives.

From over five thousand to less than five: I feel like it’s safe to say that the physical distance has officially been closed, though I’m laughing at the irony that is my life, for so much has changed since I first dreamt of this moment, and I’m wondering if any other kind of closeness would ever possibly ensue (though very much ambiguous, I’m thinking no). So much is different, and I’m only musing, entertained by how circumstance has been presented, how much of myself has been altered, how estranged I feel that I’ve taken myself so far for the sake of pursuing an idea. I’m giddy at not knowing, enthralled by delicious obscurity, fused with throes of adrenaline at mere contemplation of potential reconciliation, though unperturbed wholeheartedly by the threat of rejection, because my heart is no longer in your hands. It belongs to myself again; I scooped it up from off the floor after you let it go, and I’m empowered by the independence instilled within my own soul. I will not break my own heart. But we are no longer five thousand miles apart—less than five, even, and five months ago that self that loved you so profoundly and desperately deserves some kind of closure, and this new, strong self I’ve constructed has enough conviction and determination to coddle the old one if things go awry. But this travel, since circumstance has changed so greatly lately, is no longer about you. You are not my sun, nor my moon—merely a constellation that, were I to get distracted, I can lose sight of easily, can confuse your luminescent patterns with the chaotic translation of stars around you. If you send me away, shove a middle finger at my face, I’ll melt the cold chip with self-love and graciously enthrall myself with the enchantment of travel. Whatever the outcome, I can’t lose.

7

What you were will never happen again. I really want to ******* *****

0

Feb 17, 2014

Feb 17, 2014 at 1:41 AM UTC

Biggest Mistake I've Ever Made

What you were will never happen again. I really want to ******* *****

2

Kristin says that you’re a **** At two in the morning I took a drive by myself to The Middle Of Nowhere, Surprise, Arizona, and I’m just sitting in the dark, gazing into the flat black sky. The moon is dulled, hazy, and blurred by the casted smear of clouds, like my current opinion of you. I don’t know what it is that I should feel anymore. I haven’t cried in an extensive stretch of my life, which in real time is actually only a couple of days, but last week feels like a year ago to me. It’s so quiet in my heart. There’s no traces of hurt that I can muster enough delving to detect within myself, but I know that if I went back home and fell asleep in my room, I would wake up drenched in sweat under the covers, simultaneously shivering and overheated and silently overwhelmed, daunted by the absence of your love. But right now, sitting in my car, curing like a taciturn husk of a person in the reticence of the night, I can almost mistake this detachment for serenity. The night wraps me in a blanket infinitely more comfortable than the ones on my bed, and nothing is out here to tie you back to my memory. I don’t know what it is that I think of you, anymore. Kristin says that you’re a **** and maybe that’s true. But there was someone else there, too—there was someone of particular interest that I can almost remember, someone that had me feeling deeply every single “I love you”. But it’s been a year in my time, and I’ve forgotten. It doesn’t feel like you had ever been mine, and right now, sitting in my dark car, everything is completely, entirely, serenely fine. I can’t see the moon anymore.

0

Feb 8, 2014

Feb 8, 2014 at 4:45 AM UTC

Prose of an Insomniac

Kristin says that you’re a **** At two in the morning I took a drive by myself to The Middle Of Nowhere, Surprise, Arizona, and I’m just sitting in the dark, gazing into the flat black sky. The moon is dulled, hazy, and blurred by the casted smear of clouds, like my current opinion of you. I don’t know what it is that I should feel anymore. I haven’t cried in an extensive stretch of my life, which in real time is actually only a couple of days, but last week feels like a year ago to me. It’s so quiet in my heart. There’s no traces of hurt that I can muster enough delving to detect within myself, but I know that if I went back home and fell asleep in my room, I would wake up drenched in sweat under the covers, simultaneously shivering and overheated and silently overwhelmed, daunted by the absence of your love. But right now, sitting in my car, curing like a taciturn husk of a person in the reticence of the night, I can almost mistake this detachment for serenity. The night wraps me in a blanket infinitely more comfortable than the ones on my bed, and nothing is out here to tie you back to my memory. I don’t know what it is that I think of you, anymore. Kristin says that you’re a **** and maybe that’s true. But there was someone else there, too—there was someone of particular interest that I can almost remember, someone that had me feeling deeply every single “I love you”. But it’s been a year in my time, and I’ve forgotten. It doesn’t feel like you had ever been mine, and right now, sitting in my dark car, everything is completely, entirely, serenely fine. I can’t see the moon anymore.

8

I keep trying to convince myself that I’ve mustered enough strength to stand up, take a breath, and move the **** on with my life, content and resolute in knowing that you can’t be a part of it any longer; I keep trying to convince myself that it was all a bad (and exquisitely decadent) dream, that none of it actually happened, that you were precisely those last terrible words, and nothing else; I keep trying to convince myself that I never loved you, that I do not still love you… And yet all the while I can’t muster enough strength to stand up at all; I balance and wobble on shaky stilts for a brief bit of time, sure, distract myself with “living my life” and “letting you go” and finding peace amongst the heartbreak, but I am too clumsy to keep abreast for long— the end of my shoes clip and snag onto memories of sweet nothings, and I fall all over again as if it were for the first time; I fall and hit the ground with a smitten, dazed smack of my head to the pavement, and at first I’m numbed with pleasantries, with the tender memories and harmonies that used to put me to sleep with a smile so stupid it wouldn’t wipe away, but then the stars clear and I’m trying to bite back the smarting with fallacies over my decidedly pragmatic indifference, and in my not-yet-pained stupor, I can almost breathe a mechanical sigh— can almost get swallowed up by sheer lack of sensation— and extract a salvation out of my own emotional etherization and find satisfaction amongst the numbness… I can almost move on if I don’t feel at all… But I don’t have any reserves of Novocain or morphine, and after I’ve fallen, the pain always returns. I keep trying to convince myself that what you told me was true, that you weren’t ever real, that you weren’t ever real, but that contemplation is destroyed the minute it enters the recesses of my darkened cognizance, and I can never revere over a single ******* moment of my day without something of you making its unsolicited entrance; you were always real. I don’t know; I just want something positive to come of us, still; I still hope all the while we are silent; I still yearn all the while we stay distant— “independent”; you still are the victim of my fantasies all the while within my head I lament, praying that I’ll find contentment, and that for a small while you are only just taking rent elsewhere, and will soon miss me enough to say that leaving me is never what you meant of it… Call me excessively self-indulgent and masochistic for all the emotional ballistics and disconsolate pyrotechnics but I’m convinced that the last five months can be validated with a simple romantic fix of all of this: for you and I were too explosive not to make sense; there’s too much that’s been felt, too much harboring under my doting starry-eyed belt, too much over which you’ve made me melt. All I’m asking for is your help. I surely didn’t imagine you, I didn’t imagine that warmth that so affectionately looms, didn’t imagine the luminescence of the moon, didn’t imagine the connection between us two… I suppose what it is that I’ve been trying to say, what all along I’ve attempted to convey, is that I miss you: Please come back to me, Mr. Blue… I really ******* miss you.

0

Feb 6, 2014

Feb 6, 2014 at 9:45 PM UTC

I Really ******* Miss You

I keep trying to convince myself that I’ve mustered enough strength to stand up, take a breath, and move the **** on with my life, content and resolute in knowing that you can’t be a part of it any longer; I keep trying to convince myself that it was all a bad (and exquisitely decadent) dream, that none of it actually happened, that you were precisely those last terrible words, and nothing else; I keep trying to convince myself that I never loved you, that I do not still love you… And yet all the while I can’t muster enough strength to stand up at all; I balance and wobble on shaky stilts for a brief bit of time, sure, distract myself with “living my life” and “letting you go” and finding peace amongst the heartbreak, but I am too clumsy to keep abreast for long— the end of my shoes clip and snag onto memories of sweet nothings, and I fall all over again as if it were for the first time; I fall and hit the ground with a smitten, dazed smack of my head to the pavement, and at first I’m numbed with pleasantries, with the tender memories and harmonies that used to put me to sleep with a smile so stupid it wouldn’t wipe away, but then the stars clear and I’m trying to bite back the smarting with fallacies over my decidedly pragmatic indifference, and in my not-yet-pained stupor, I can almost breathe a mechanical sigh— can almost get swallowed up by sheer lack of sensation— and extract a salvation out of my own emotional etherization and find satisfaction amongst the numbness… I can almost move on if I don’t feel at all… But I don’t have any reserves of Novocain or morphine, and after I’ve fallen, the pain always returns. I keep trying to convince myself that what you told me was true, that you weren’t ever real, that you weren’t ever real, but that contemplation is destroyed the minute it enters the recesses of my darkened cognizance, and I can never revere over a single ******* moment of my day without something of you making its unsolicited entrance; you were always real. I don’t know; I just want something positive to come of us, still; I still hope all the while we are silent; I still yearn all the while we stay distant— “independent”; you still are the victim of my fantasies all the while within my head I lament, praying that I’ll find contentment, and that for a small while you are only just taking rent elsewhere, and will soon miss me enough to say that leaving me is never what you meant of it… Call me excessively self-indulgent and masochistic for all the emotional ballistics and disconsolate pyrotechnics but I’m convinced that the last five months can be validated with a simple romantic fix of all of this: for you and I were too explosive not to make sense; there’s too much that’s been felt, too much harboring under my doting starry-eyed belt, too much over which you’ve made me melt. All I’m asking for is your help. I surely didn’t imagine you, I didn’t imagine that warmth that so affectionately looms, didn’t imagine the luminescence of the moon, didn’t imagine the connection between us two… I suppose what it is that I’ve been trying to say, what all along I’ve attempted to convey, is that I miss you: Please come back to me, Mr. Blue… I really ******* miss you.

55

Dearest Mr. Blue You're far away now, Love, but My heart waits for you.

0

Feb 5, 2014

Feb 5, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC

Distance (A Haiku)

Dearest Mr. Blue You're far away now, Love, but My heart waits for you.

3

You’re not sorry, So stop saying so. There’s no gravity to your Emptied apology; I’m tired of dreaming Psychotically, Of ambiguity and opportunity. This poem is a eulogy: Sending off the desperation Fueling me To let go of your cold heart That’s been just using me To stoke the dying embers Starved from emotional seclusion— I’m trying so very hard not To let myself live with the delusion That you and me Could ever be Anything Other than some LDR fling— And those months (one through five) Weren’t even real, Because neither are we. This love, was it ever alive? At least I’m not. After all, I’m just a thought That you’re hoping your heart has forgot— A figment from chaotic space That you’re forcing yourself to eradicate, Go ahead; take the eraser to my smiling face… You’re not sorry, We both know it isn’t true: “Cause with every ‘I love you’ I’m now getting over you”

0

Jan 31, 2014

Jan 31, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC

Eulogy to the Broken Bits of Me

You’re not sorry, So stop saying so. There’s no gravity to your Emptied apology; I’m tired of dreaming Psychotically, Of ambiguity and opportunity. This poem is a eulogy: Sending off the desperation Fueling me To let go of your cold heart That’s been just using me To stoke the dying embers Starved from emotional seclusion— I’m trying so very hard not To let myself live with the delusion That you and me Could ever be Anything Other than some LDR fling— And those months (one through five) Weren’t even real, Because neither are we. This love, was it ever alive? At least I’m not. After all, I’m just a thought That you’re hoping your heart has forgot— A figment from chaotic space That you’re forcing yourself to eradicate, Go ahead; take the eraser to my smiling face… You’re not sorry, We both know it isn’t true: “Cause with every ‘I love you’ I’m now getting over you”

33

I listened to your latest rap, and how terrible I feel for loving it so much. How terrible it is that the only raps in which I am the muse are of broken hearts and tragedy. How terrible it is that I think this may be more beautiful than what I had with you this time last month. You said you were getting over me though, and I’m struggling to grip onto reality, for my hope is blinding me too dramatically and my heart wants so desperately to not believe you. I can’t afford to let you go, not to my core, for fear of letting my feelings harden anymore, over this. We’re both volatile, but what we’ve shared was real. You are real. And I feel that you’d told me otherwise, fed me some scrambling apologetic lies, over the sake of granting each other freedom— pseudo-altruistic ******** trust me, love, I didn’t need ‘em. I didn’t ask that you’d set me free, merely that you be with me; it’s just you I need. But I will wait, because neither of us has really said goodbye, and I don’t doubt that those parting words will die before they ever reach one another, and after waiting, I will try, again. But until then, at least I’ve made you feel something. At least you’ve made me feel something, and how terrible I feel for loving it so much.

0

Jan 31, 2014

Jan 31, 2014 at 2:46 PM UTC

How Terrible

I listened to your latest rap, and how terrible I feel for loving it so much. How terrible it is that the only raps in which I am the muse are of broken hearts and tragedy. How terrible it is that I think this may be more beautiful than what I had with you this time last month. You said you were getting over me though, and I’m struggling to grip onto reality, for my hope is blinding me too dramatically and my heart wants so desperately to not believe you. I can’t afford to let you go, not to my core, for fear of letting my feelings harden anymore, over this. We’re both volatile, but what we’ve shared was real. You are real. And I feel that you’d told me otherwise, fed me some scrambling apologetic lies, over the sake of granting each other freedom— pseudo-altruistic ******** trust me, love, I didn’t need ‘em. I didn’t ask that you’d set me free, merely that you be with me; it’s just you I need. But I will wait, because neither of us has really said goodbye, and I don’t doubt that those parting words will die before they ever reach one another, and after waiting, I will try, again. But until then, at least I’ve made you feel something. At least you’ve made me feel something, and how terrible I feel for loving it so much.

32