all i remembered was that i did not care for the feeling, that i did not want to be that person. feel that hurt.
Now i am that person. i feel that hurt.
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 4:56 PM UTC
"You're tired, aren't you?"
Not in the way that you think.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 10:39 AM UTC
If I'm being honest
I'm tired of being a poet.
I'm tired of findig meaning in everything from the lines of the sky to the cracks in the side walk
I'm tired of using extended metaphors to explain how overwhelmed or angry or sad I am
I'm tired of immortalizing the people I love or hate in half assed lines of poetry
For once I would like a good day just to be a good day or a bad day just to be a bad day
A landscape to hold no higher meaning than to magnify the glory of existence
For the people I know to hold no cosmic significance in the fabric of time
I would like to sit and be quiet
To write and be at peace
For the storm to pass over
And to find some relief
This is not a game for me this is how I breathe and I am tired of having to hold meaning in every crack and every crevice
My poetic nature has become a menice in my tired skin
I'm tired of letting the light in
But this isn't something you quit
This is something you breathe
This is something you are
This is something you need
Even if it doesn't make sense all the time
This is the one true thing I know that's mine
My sense of rhythm and my sense of rhyme
And it isn't easy all the time
Because these days life moves faster than I've even known
Faster than I can process what I've been shown
These days it's easy to feel the weight of all of my time spent alone
My mind isn't home
I'm chilled to the bone
These days I'm tired of being tired and tired of writing about how tired I am
Like I'm six feet under but I'm not yet dead
Using poetic devices to say what's already been said
I'm tired of playing this game
Imortalizing name after name
I still feel the same
Even though I still keep writing
So what I'm trying to say is that I need poetry like I need water but sometimes if you drink too fast or you drink too deep you feel like you're drowning
Out to sea in familiar surroundings
It's astounding how tiring being a poet can be.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 5:12 PM UTC
A friend attempted to break me
Took a love of mine from under me
She won't approach me now
I smiled when I saw her, just yesterday
She packed up her things and left
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 6:46 PM UTC
Men leave me in silence
Hiding their love
Hiding their pain
Not a word is uttered
As they walk out through my door
A glance, not meant to be seen
I have seen before.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 4:49 PM UTC
Snapping the air from where it settled around my face,
dragging it to lungs .
Exhaling through lips that formed words,
I had no intention of saying.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 4:14 PM UTC
A certain peace envelops
The second hour of the night,
A little mellow, a little electric,
The ratios positioned just right
I'm sure this chai I'm dreamily sipping on,
Would not seem as delectable in the day
As it is right now, with its caffeine
Making all my senses with abandon, sway
That's the thing about this hour, I say,
Its still tranquility, its silence and calm
is merely superficial; if you're up this time,
you're part of a storm
A simmering storm, with a quiet surface,
and a whirlpool of life concealed within,
A psychedelic fiesta booming with
A myriad of emotions beneath the brim
Indeed, Silence turns Audible,
Colors turn Tangible,
Misery turns Defeatable,
Loneliness turns Affable
Music begins to make all the more sense,
When freed from the cacophony of the day,
In fact, the night will tune a sweeter melody
If you'll put those headphones away
And listen! Listen to the solitude,
The slow tick-tock of the clock,
The distant horn of a car somewhere,
The occasional howl of a street dog,
The rustle of leaves as they dream in their slumber,
The whisper of the wind as it strolls outside,
The sound of Papa's snoring the sole interruption,
To the fluid rhythm of the night.
A certain contenment surrounds me tonight,
As I bid goodbye to the second hour revelry,
Where my sentiments turned to words,
And words turned into my long departed but duly returned,
Poetry
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 4:57 PM UTC
We are half moons
Our eyes, stars
Behind a sheer darkness.
The tip of your nose
Nuzzles mine
And the soul of your foot
Warms my cold toes.
Almost as if
We scrolled letters
From our open mouths
To the souls of our feet.
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 3:39 PM UTC
sometimes I fidget
uncomfortable with the weight
of the words
that course through my veins
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 10:09 AM UTC