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Bummer Sep 20
Tonight was only a matter of time.

I just wish you weren’t there to see it.
Bummer Sep 17
It's been 7 months since I let your sinful filth between my lips.

I still crave you every day.
Bummer Sep 11
I'm going round and round,
and I'm afraid of falling off,
because I know that if I slip,
there is no catcher in the rye.

Innocence is never preserved,
and reaching for that ring is scary as hell,
things just don't stay the same,
and that's the truth.

It's so bitter sweet,
it's a torturous love,
it's the happiest you get,
and the hardest you fall.

But if I slip,
and if I fall,
will you catch me,
one last time?

Will You Catch Me One Last Time?
I'm 16, so I'm allowed to idolize Holden
Bummer Aug 28
I guess writing didn't work.
I'm starting to see cobwebs collecting between the lines of your poems.
They're lost, buried in a library of millions upon millions of other peoples problems that are just written in different ways.
It's okay.
I understand why you have stopped.
At times I want to.
My poems feel like rants, not art.
My songs sound familiar, and not my own.
Maybe if I throw in a metaphor or two it will end up being loved.
It's a romance that's fading.
I have just as much guts to say I love you as I do to let go.
But I'll keep writing.
And I hope you keep reading.
Maybe one day I'll change you.
baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad
Bummer Aug 21
I think when you kiss me you can taste the "I'm sorry" on my lips.


That must get annoying.
Bummer Aug 21
i’m cold and I want to cry.
I know you’re on my side, but I want you by my side.
Bummer Aug 20
I'm not satisfied with you.

Hell, I don't even like you.

I've put my time into you,

My tears into you,

Even my confidence into you.

And still you fail me.
And still you disappoint me.

I've drafted my work and practiced my craft.
I've read from the greats, and still I'm not content.

Do I need to include a ******* metaphor for me to like this?
Maybe give it an overtone of gloom and despair?

My poetry is a name on an old tombstone.
Unread and dead.
My pen is in the hands of an "Artist,"
Who's words will never be said.


I'm not satisfied with you.

Hell, I don't even like you.

But so long as I have a pen In my hand,

Ill try to get a little better.
i don't like my poems.
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