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Abigail Madsen Sep 2013
The window fogged over
No longer sober
I wish I could go back
and start all over

My eyes close shut
The silence remains uncut
I wish it was different
I guess it is
Somewhat

Standing in the door
Can't look in your eyes
With a heart too sore
Please I need you for more

A grave stands alone
Name, age and date shown
On my heals I turn
I leave your grave stone
Abigail Madsen Aug 2013
I think it's interesting
Interesting how I can be good enough for
only certain things
for late nights
for
whispers that leave emotions raw
for
lies
most of all for
lust
a girl good enough for
desire
but not your love
the kind of girl who gets so wrapped up in
feeling wanted
I drown  in a pool of
'will he ever hold my hand'
or
'tell me I'm pretty because
Because I don't feel pretty
getting emotionally ****** monday through friday'
Between
Closed doors
and hushed moans
did I love you
and
Between
Closed doors
and hush moans
did you **** me over
Pun intended
when did
it become okay
to play with emotions
didn't you ever learn
a girls heart is never a toy?
well in this case my heart is the guitar you used
in your hand
before I became so wrapped up in making you my man
plucking my emotions with your fingers
my body are now the words once sung from your lips
and there is nothing I can do
Because I am so in tune
a guitar string is strung
like my lung
waits for your voice to fill the air
that I breathe
waiting for your heart to become a part of me
then I think to
when
You're holding her with one arm
while the other is wrapped up in my body
lying in your bed seven nights a week
and that air gets spit up
leaving my lungs empty
letting your words bend me
into the girl you want me to be
even though you refuse to see
how much I depend on your word
It's absurd
But I find it interesting how
I will only ever know your body
and not your heart
it ******* *****
because it's tearing me apart
-Pardon the language, I originally wanted to write this in all in second person, but it just flows better in first. This was a poem for a book by Ellen Hopkins for a class I had.
Abigail Madsen May 2013
What ***** is how much I love you
What ***** is waking up and thinking of you
What ***** is you living in my mind

I hate that you embedded yourself there
I hate that you don't even realize
I hate myself for loving you

The look I see in your eyes when you talk about her
I know that look
I know it because its how I look at you
and maybe if you weren't too busy looking through me
you'd see me

Standing
Waiting
Hoping

And as my insides twist
At the thought of you not loving me
My eyes blur and I can no longer see

The tears flow
Time slows
I pray some day you'll know

Why I've been here for so long.
I've been pretty heart achey recently...
Abigail Madsen May 2013
72 years. Thats how long true love lasts. Well I like to think it lasts longer. I don’t know that for sure yet but I’d like to some day. Together since age fourteen and sixteen, I think thats pretty impressive. A different time. Which ***** because so much of ‘love’ nowadays revolves around lust. Which is more physical than emotional. So then I wonder how can they throw the word love around, whilst throwing themselves around. Oh the irony
Well I thought I loved someone once. Eight months, with probably triple that amount in fights. Though we fought it came easy to us. I guess thats more than I can say then the couples that were around us. But it was too hard. Hearing what he really thought about me. Not good enough. Too far away. Like I was so object only to be attained, to be shown off. Like a prize. Well I stopped being that object the same day he decided he didn’t love me
That’s what also ***** about this generation. There isn’t just a relationship or single there is: Talking, talking talking, flirt texting, couple dates talking, occasionally hook up talking, got drunk that one time at a party and now things are awkward talking. Then there’s: Having a thing, kind of together, pretty much together but not official, pretty much together but not Facebook official, together, and too many more.  
We can’t go two seconds with out Facebook stalking, texting, IMing, calling, or being together without fights, or assumptions about unfaithfulness. People are treated as objects and love it because someone, somewhere is paying attention to them and making them feel special. Generation X. Who can’t stop worrying about all their ex’s. More like generation disappointment.
I REALLY LIKE VIGNETTES, OKAY!?
Abigail Madsen May 2013
It’s amazing how one hospital trip can change the rest of your life. Or even lack of one even. He was four. I, three.  It was late, I had no idea why I was going to Bridget and John’s house. More importantly, I didn’t know why Zack wasn’t coming with me. 11 pm, I guess that’s pretty late for a three year old. I don’t think at that point I really had any grasp on what was actually happening. That nothing would ever be the same again. Half asleep, trudging to that sliding glass door I’d seen hundreds of times. I went into the house, the aroma of sweet cinnamon and love hung in the air.
      Burnt toast and peanut butter. That pretty much sums up an entire year of my life. Three years old, and for almost every weekend, which was too many, spent with Bridget and John, sleepless nights and peanut butter toast. There was: late night toast, midnight toast, way too early morning toast, morning toast, breakfast toast, too much toast. I think I was a picky three year old, then again, that isn’t exactly unheard of. I wasn’t very fond of peanut butter or toast, but I still ate it. I yearned for a sweet taste of normality. I craved something routine. Funny, because my life was everything but normal during that year. Funny, because I will never eat peanut butter toast ever, again.
     Many nights spent waiting for an answer. Wishing to go back, and hoping for everything to be okay. But as the car rolled out of the gravel driveway on that first night, so did an unmedicated future for my brother.
I've been writing vignettes recently
Abigail Madsen May 2013
I’ve met 37 girls named Sarah. My name. Sarah. Five letters, nothing special. It’s not beautiful like Lena. Not creative like Anastasia. No one has any trouble pronouncing it. Which I guess isn’t all that bad. Until they go into that story about that one Sarah who gives my name a bitter taste in their mouth. Spiting out the two syllable, five letter word that defines me, like they know something about me. “Oh Sarah, I knew a Sarah once.” Please don’t say my name like that, don’t elongate that first a, cut sharp the sound of the r, only to drop the h at the end. Five letters said as if there are only four.
Abigail Madsen May 2013
Hands
being washed of sins
Of all the places been
You can relax
and shed your skin
what's done is done
it's your life to begin
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