I could almost look normal
If every 5-20 minutes
I go to the bathroom to
Cry
Breathe
And take a break

Pretty girls get listened to
Fat old ladies are ignored

A lovely face will unlock doors
A homely face will find them closed

A shapely figure’s always noticed
A shapeless one’s invisible.

This is the way society works
Not even pretending to be fair

How do I know about these rules
I have lived by them - Three out of six.
ljm

There’re so many sad love poems around here.
If you guys need help negotiating love’s slippery *****,
let me offer you, your own, romantic horoscope!:

Don’t court romantic disaster
don’t mistake a lightbulb for the moon
Titanic wasn't a rom com

and a sad update:
Grand romantic gestures don’t happen anymore,
you're lucky to get a vibration in our pocket with a "sorry" text

I know what you're thinking though, “We didn’t know the moon was useless until we landed on it,” but once you’ve ‘landed’ on a guy (or girl), once or twice, it’s too late—you’re likely ‘in it.’

Big picture-wise, I think we all have Shakespeare to thank for unrealistic, romantic storylines. Romeo & Juliet are the perfect example—they meet, fall in love and marry the very next day.

In Shakespeare’s defense though, love in his world-building was always messy and imperfect, and there were few "happily ever after" narratives. (The exception being Beatrice and Benedick, in ‘Much Ado About Nothing’).

In a side note, my weekly horoscope (Libra) for the Thanksgiving holiday reads:
“You’ve become so self-centered, It’s all about you. What about your family? Before you go emo and angry, change your perspective—own it—strive to improve relationships.”
Sarsh (so harsh), in this writer’s opinion.
.
.
(Songs for this):
Love Is In Town by Brenda Boykin
Do You Even Know? by Rae Morris

it's a small world
one that we torture
one that we ******
one that we ruin

it's a small world
one that we contaminate
one that we pollute
one that we steal from

it's a small world
one that we never give back to
because now,
it is too late
sorry, earth

You are what you eat
And you write what you read.

I have never read the greats
Except an occasional poem for class,
And I feel like a heretic for saying that.

I’ve never willingly
Read Shakespeare or E.E. Cummings
But instead:

I read the words of online poets
Consuming their ink—
Or should I say pixels?
I graze their crimson lining as they
Turn themselves inside out to
Let the whole internet see.

I rise with the wave that they weave with their words
And then when it crashes, when it crashes down
I go under as if drowning was velvety soft and I
Let it wash me onto the shore.

You are what you eat and
You write what you read.

Rarely do I read stilted lines and perfect form
So I write like a mess and a surge and a storm.

I always knew
That he wasn't really normal
I mean Penny’s dad never yelled
Or cried
Or switched all the time
But I didn't really obsess over it
Until I was around eight-maybe nine
Memories of the day
And the sound of his sobbing passing through the thin walls
Kept me awake

I did what they warn us not to do
I took my phone
And Googled
His problems
His symptoms
The things that I had to suffer from

There were too many questions
I needed answers
I needed solutions

Daughters and sons
By the water of words
Water from the pond
Shores in centuries

Described by silence
Existence of ice-cold entities
Made of cosmic dust
For the moment afterwards

Moment afterwards
In the pond
Hope
Shore of the awakening

Blinking of an entity
Who you do love
Whom you forgive
In the house of silence

yearnings called me back deep,
pulling me in the opposite direction.

Teardrops trickled in all directions
across and down my red flushed face
my heart pounded to a rhythm I had never known
uncontrollable mood swings followed

this was my first love, saying goodbye
I often recall and often regret
yet, what could I of possibly done different?
my destiny, my personality, were formed long before she came

many years later, I was given a label;

tut-tut, oh well, never mind
learn to live with it
you can never change

I travel into the echoes of my long distant past
I find life was not as I remembered
insanity was my upbringing
schemas in place long before I knew they were there

the culprits have now both left this world
I have no explanation, admission or apology
just a bucket of square pegs
with round holes to fill

so, to my first love, I say this;

you did well to walk away from me
I would have only brought you pain


yet, the teardrops still fall