As 2 turns into 3,
And 3 hops down to four.
My thoughts begin to burn.
My head begins to pour.
My brain begins to bubble,
I'm losing all my steam.
My arms begin to puddle,
Flowing little streams.
As my sleepless night continues,
I seem Confounded, I start to tremble.
Every night my idle vigil,
Starts to burn, my head so brittle.
In my eyes I see but black,
And in my hands- Insomniac
**** sleep is evading me again.
There is a bird on my window sill
So indecisive, sitting still
She could have been up on that tree
Instead, she came and talked to me
“Oh pretty girl you know things well
So tell me which one would be swell
To sing for a crowd that isn’t there
Or to die for a crowd that doesn’t care?”
I didn’t know quite what to say
And so the bird, she flew away
An old one I dug up from the archives circa 2012-2013.
Not sure where I was going with this but here it is.
I am the first line
I am a different line
I prefer the first line
Well you’re wrong, the second one is better.
Nah nah you’re both wrong, line five is amazing.
Can we all just agree that line five is full of it?
Yeah I think most of us can, but line two might
I am the last line
i haven’t slept in 36 hours,
it’s given me time, well- It’s given my brain time enough to deteriorate a bit and drop all my filters.
And i know now what the hell has been in my head whispering to me.
i hate myself.
i hate myself because i have such a **** hard time trying to figure out if i feel, feel as in caring for someone. Wanting someone whenever, regardless.
i hate myself because i can’t beat myself, it’s like fighting a mirror, you throw a punch, the reflection goes right back at you.
i hate myself because of my life, 14 years isn’t the problem, the next 50 is.
i hate myself,
Because i am myself, i’m me, and that’s all
translated from latin the title means "i hate you"
A penny for my past,
A nickel for all my life.
That's all of life's worth
Up in the trees,
Wind in the air,
Doesn't get much better.
Living without much care.
This was written while I was in a tree btw
a poems like a book,
or you can say it's something more.
like a diary, or journal, shared out for the hordes.
you could say it's something less,
like handled wire and mesh.
nothing new and quite bored,
but I know it's something more.
our poems are our thoughts.
( let's be honest- ours are mostly moors)
they show just how we've fought,
the waves and tumbling chords.
many bring apart the strands,
of a rug so riled and ran.
something like our hearts,
flowing out our hands.
it's a wonder how much they hurt,
to write- to read- and find.
it seems it's just the way,
that poems like to be designed