I shouldn't have tripped over you,
Hell, I didn't even write about you,
You didn't shake me,
I mean the wind can make me budge more than you,
or light a passionate fire in my stomach that blazes only
when I see your eyes.
Hell, I didn't even write about your eyes,
how uninteresting they were.
To worry over you anymore would be a waste of my time,
almost as much as you were.
As a writer, we only write about people we love,
and baby-doll,
I didn't even pick up a pen for you.
Looking through the pages of my journals,
yes, you could say there were short entries,
never full pages,
scribbled about you,
but baby,
if you think those simply thought out records of my thoughts
count as true writings,
you've got it all wrong.
You were an entry on an off-day,
scrunched at the bottom few lines of my journal
if I had space to write while still leaving room for things that truly matter.
I've composed characters and love poems and novels
based on ex-'Could-Have-Been' lovers
that are now written off as mistakes,
and baby,
you weren't even regrettable enough to make that list.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
It's not like I like going out so much because I hate my family or because I'm headed down a bad path of drugs and party life, it's just that I like to forget how empty I feel and spend my life with people I enjoy and have a good time until it's too late.
Can't stop, won't stop.
I need to meet new people.
I need to meet people that are as down for me I am for them.
Let's do stupid things together like 'Dine and Dash' or lie to our parents, tell them we're sleeping over at each other's houses, and go on a road trip for the weekend.
Let's hop fences and do hoodlum things in the night and make up elaborate lies saying how, "No, it wasn't us who wrote 'Eat Shit' in paint on your car."
And for God's sake, let's be there for each other, and genuinely concerned as if it was our own problem, and know there's something wrong before the other can even utter a whimper.
I want someone who I'm not afraid to call my best friend without the fear that they don't feel the same way.
I want someone who knows what I want,
I want someone who knows I write, who knows what my goals are,
What my favorite movie is and knows that this is a trick question because I don't have just one.
I want someone who knows I feel like this.
I want someone who can figure me out.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
What a wonderful thing
to feel nothing at all.
Then,
there is nothing to lose.
There is no emotional garden to tend,
therefore,
no need to water the flowers,
because it will not matter
if they die.
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 9:53 PM UTC
I ordered this thing called a ****** Doll."
It's made of this tough. durable fabric and you're supposed to take this
rag doll looking thing
and bang it against the wall when you're mad.
I've tried but I don't think it works for me.
So i consider the brutal sport of boxing and
pounding the **** out of that punching bag
but with those big heavy gloves, the contact of the plastic gloves to the plastic covering of the bag makes it so
impersonal.
With my raw hands, i want to knock make a
******* hole in the wall,
punch the **** out of someones jaw.
My direct skin to the first thing in sight.
No gloves, no ****** Doll.
Just me and my open ****** knuckles to do the talking
for when my mouth can't.
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 9:44 PM UTC
Sometimes I just want to
**** myself, just so I can see
the world unravel itself,
to see all the people I love
get the news and lose feeling in their knees
and drop to the floor, or silently cry to themselves at lunch
or think about me whenever they hear or see a certain thing,
reminding themselves of an inside joke we once had.
To imagine those who disrespected,
took advantage
and carelessly stomped over our relationship like a hardwood floor--
as if I was ever stable enough to hold up the both of us--
let the merciless furry of regret scorch them and melt them from
the inside out, like acid on skin,
wishing that maybe they'd
shown how much they appreciated me,
instead of showing true to the prophecy:
You don't know what you have until it's gone.
Maybe I want this because I long to be the center of attention,
or maybe because I'm curious.
Or maybe because I just want the world to suffer.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
When I think of moving on from you
I always forget that you're embedded in my skin,
something I can't take off and you're apart of me now.
They say "be comfortable in you own skin,"
but how can I sleep in my own skin when
you're poking at my body at 4 am, keeping me up,
all the way from your house,
where your skin is soft and warm
pressed up against
hers?
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 10:55 PM UTC
It's funny because
people think I'm emotionless, and that
all people are better off that way,
when really,
the only reason I'm like this is because
you
have all my heart
and are the bearer of all my feelings.
I gave you my all.
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 12:26 AM UTC
In my dream,
I was imagining kissing you so
I grabbed your favorite book
and I kissed the spine where it crinkles up
like a pair of lips,
and then I realized
that even in my dreams,
a place where your nocturnal
thoughts can waken from their slumber
and roam free,
disguising themselves and their harsh realities
as innocent characters and objects in a
fantasy,
I can't have you.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 2:37 AM UTC