Why should I come to you,
With my heart in my hands,
Only for you to take it from me,
And pull on my heart strings,
Making me,
A puppet of love.
Why should I look to you,
To see your face,
Only for you to turn it from me,
Your beauty is so intense,
Making me,
A sucker for love.
Why should I call to you,
And give you my name,
Only for you to throw it at me,
Like a weapon of war,
Making me,
A casualty of love.
Why do I love you,
With all of my heart?
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
I'm still not understanding how just 365 days ago things were so much better in life and how just 365 days ago we were proclaiming our love and you promised to stay but now it's 365 days later and I'm laying on a bench in the local park at 5am with a bottle swinging in the air controlled by my hand and that friend who you wanted to protect me from is sitting right beside me gabbing on and on about how life isn't very different from last and all I can think about is yes it is for me.
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 5:12 PM UTC
I
h
a
v
e
f
e
e
l
i
n
g
s
that
form
thou
ghts,
that
form
words,
that form
sente nces,
that form
rope, which
ties itself
into a noose.
Your words
are also a rope,
that saves me from
drowning.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
The words you told me twisted my mind and all the solid parts of my body turned loving and soft but now everything is hollow and my stomach feels as if someone placed a heavy rock on my core for every time I breathe you come to my mind and my face has fainted marker on it because now you draw tears on my cheeks ever since my soul ran out of tears to cry.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
she was a poet,
and he was her pen.
in him,
she always found words to write,
songs to sing,
thoughts to think.
he'd smile,
and kiss her softly,
and say,
"write me a poem."
and she would.
she'd put poe,
and whitman,
and shakespeare to shame,
and she'd write a poem that made his eyes water.
she'd compare him
to a rose with no thorns,
a book with no end,
a world with no poverty --
the things we all wish for,
but can never attain.
//
he asked her one day,
"what am i?"
and so she picked up her pen,
and began the usual:
*you are the shining sun after a hurricane,
with rays that open the eyes of the blind.*
but he stopped her after those two lines,
and said that this time,
he didn't want any metaphors,
or similes,
or analogies.
he wanted the truth.
and so on that night,
as he slept,
the poet picked up her pen,
and she wrote.
she wrote,
then thought better of it,
then started over again,
and this cycle continued well into the early hours of the morning,
until suddenly,
she wrote, frantic,
*if i can't love you for what you really are,
have i ever really loved you at all?*
this, too,
she thought better of,
condemning it to the trash.
the next morning the poet was gone,
her final work a mere two words:
i'm sorry.
(a.m.)
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 11:35 AM UTC
im not sure if you noticed but when you left you took my heart and soul with you and people keep on asking me why is there a bandaid over where my heart is suppose to be and ive ran out of excuses on why im emotionless and maybe when you find the chance you could hand them back and possibly could we talk about you and i because people keep on wanting to talk about what happened with us and what went wrong and the great and the ugly but the truth is the only person i want to talk to about us is with you.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 11:01 AM UTC
They say the less you care the happier you'll be well **** I wish I could accomplish such a well rounded quote but I've got orbs in my skull and worry in my veins for the people who don't care if I died tomorrow to the people who will die for me so play your cards right in life because I did not achieve the quote game nor the card.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC