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Every corner, is just there,
And the former, sit so bare.
Everything, that I'm aware,
Has no thing, to hold me there.
Unblemished? A woman, yes but yet unfinished. A long way off from her goals and ambitions. On her way? Yes, but yet the road is long and hard, and riddled with frigid winters.
My muse was loving you.
My muse was being hurt by your love.
But you not loving me.
Your realization of never truly being in that love,
That isn't a pain I can even begin to write about.
Knowing that I could have changed all this had I been older and more grown? That's a story that hasn't been read yet. As if it will ever be opened...
It was rare love alright,
Only...
You rarely loved me,
The way you thought you did.
Your heart is not a bureaucrat,
waiting on tax returns.

Nothing is in writing,
nor verbal contract.
The only inking is flushed skin upon contact.

It is implied.
It's the high road.
It's when the bed shakes during a storm;
It's when the grass grows again in the morning.
The things that start my fires,
keep burning down this house.
When the paper reaches air,
I rarely like the smell.
I love those who are far away,
And romanticize the distance.
A person's still a person, but they can still put the stars in your sky.
A person's still a person but if you're hurting, they'll see the scars and ask why.
A person's still a person but what if they can light up your life.
A person's still a person, but a person can be your purpose, in time.
You make me the perfect person,
For you are my perfect purpose.
She's a model of imperfections,
Flaws fall on her face in ways that define grace,
She's a goddess without direction.
Her words encourage and lace dreams to a place you can reach if you just believed.
Her upper lip juts out a little too far so her teeth can clink yours in toast to good times when you kiss.
She's a little too short only so you can sweep her off her feet with a little more ease.
Older poem
Is this how you fall in love?
Do you analyze the way she talks, hoping it can reveal the secret to the way she walks?
And how does she think?
Will she leave behind little hints?
Letters taped to a heart shaped box, my only hope to get in, is If I can manage such locks?
And does she ponder such thoughts as I do?
Although this thought has always held the most true, with me...
Where the **** is she?
Well I accidentally the whole thing with her, so is there a "next" button?
It's like the things that I write, don't sit quite right with the people I idolize., it's like the things that I write stay out of sight, and are never truly recognized. Though they cut like a knife, spread bare my insides, show you just what it's like, to be living a life, where you already have died.  Bare witness to my demise, it will end as a suicide in the future sometime, to that I testify.
I was so head over heels in love with you,
I put my head up my own ***.
Personally,  the single greatest thing I've ever written.
Now I know I'm not over her,
But don't really know why.
And I haven't wanted to cut myself,
In quite a long time.
So how do I synchronize,
These little red lines?
I don't quite remember,
But I'll remember to try.
I just needed a moment to catch my breath,
To remember the love that I had left.
But now that love has gone and left me,
So my world constricts, I can not breathe.
Or perhaps that's the noose around this neck.
Ready to hang for all the perfect I had wrecked.
Kept to myself in vagrant spaces, now left alienated and out of placement. It's kept my mind racing, but that's incarcerated in the basement. Now I'm just playing faces, praying this life will stop being so degrading. But I tried that and just keep on failing. Today I learned that my skins just a waste of spaces.
Oh what's that? Comedy, people I smell comedy.
The wound of loneliness.
Not to be talked upon now.
And isn't that exactly it,
A quiet voice distracting from bigger ideas,
And bigger people.
Revenge is sweet. But really is it?
Anger is defeat, seems more realistic.
Best served cold? Sweet? Seems like something to avoid.
I will cut down this tree,
to make the stake where I write your name. 
I shall bury it in earth,
and mark the place your memory will stay.
The flowers may come with time,
but not with me.
Only runoff will unearth you,
as I will run away.
It's a **** shame, how that happened, and how it is, was it magic? Or was it ****?
Although I wish...
If we're talking taking risks and ignored advice.
When falling to your lips heard,
"Boy, better think twice,"
I asked if stars hurt the sky.
To grant a wish this longing kid;
In making yours and making mine,
Slipped and closed the distance between,
You and I.
how do you sleep?
when you feel so sick?
I just feel too weak.
Nothing will heal this, i need to weep
hurting, but you wouldn't see
how could you ever, put your faith in me.

I make myself sick.
I'm sick in the head
I pray for a fix
But we're already dead.
I wish to learn all the curves of your lips,
How they lie,
How they taste,
How they pray,
How they take smaller creatures,
And convince them to stay.
This might go into a chorus somewhere...
Smoking cigarettes again, haven't got much chance at anything I can barely think. As I lay here on, my, bed. Listening to the very music that makes my heart stop dead.
Stuck on death, solving all your problems with a slit of your wrist; wondering how you ever got like this. Is it really cause your mother drinks? Or because it'd "always work out" when it never did.
Sometimes I think to myself,
Ah!
The World's better off without me.
And then I think to myself again,
Ah!
I'm better off drunk.
How can I feel, that what's meant to be will be?
All that I had been, I've destroyed so happily.
I just can't believe it's happening.
I feel my spirit drift to yours,
It's not exactly a good thing, is it?
Do we know,
What it was,
All my colours,
And all of yours,
A blur,
A brown,
A morose.
Been writing more on my phone and doing more songwriting, haven't posted in awhile, enjoy!
Don't be afraid to bloom.
Don't be afraid to be a late bloomer.
Don't be afraid to be a late, late bloomer.
Don't be afraid to be the last,
Late bloomer.
All there is to know,
Is that you will bloom,
And there is nothing to fear.
I still don't have my license.
I am not only some peaceful stream of the forest,
Twinkling beneath songbirds,
Watering romancing deer.

I am also the river that cuts through the mountain,
That carves the earth to better fit my ease.

The one bears dare not cross.
The cascading ire,
Raptors are unfit to tame,
With any bellow.

Men will come to know the rocky bottom,
And winding parts,
Men will come to know their helmets and life preservers,
Won't be salvation,
When I say that they shall drown.
Butterflies turn to moths in the drapery of your stomach.
They spread,
And the feast begins on the fabric lining the masonry of your summit.

Your satin sheets,
The place you come to cradle dreams.
Who knew,
Were vulnerable to these wing'd beasts.
Missing an ending tbh.
You were the it,
the only thing.
The inspiration I hadn't yet met.
The hypothetical metaphor,
in story book prose.
**** a sweetheart,
Leaving cavities,
Remember me by's,
Memories,
Both warm and unkind.
All just a toothache.
I want to peel your skin as I peel your cloak,
Envelope you as any old song goes.
Curtains wail a blistering night,
Between you and I,
And the shutters ghost,
The furnace's spite is all it knows.
She makes me scream on the inside,
But like,
The good scream.
The scream like the one you'd type out as "asdfjhkjgfdh'l;"
The scream you'd exclaim for ice cream.
That scream.
That's a pretty good scream mate.
You told me to hold onto my dreams,
Without really knowing what I've been dreaming of.
You were the feather, and I was the paw.
Who could have ever, been the strength that I saw.
A horror movie scene as the heroine escapes.
Everything is still besides her convalescing breath and the distant, chasing wind.
Not a noise is heard except the fall leave's rattle and the birch wood's moaning bark in the moonlight.
Her body slouches into the protection of a lone shed, and shrouds itself in the aroma of cut grass.
A tense brow relieves and tired eyes close, thankful to receive the momentary peace.

A possible misstep turns the wary peace on end with the jagged cut of broken leaves. The once relieved brow now concedes surprise as wild eyes are cast towards an opaque barricade.
Sly pieces of garden equipment leash a weathered jacket in place as she attempts to stand.
A cackle is heard, a shriek undone.
To spite the brittle wood, the formulaic jump-scare-skeleton-hand bursts through the shed's solicitous walls, set to declare the last of a weary soul as his own.
The wind catches up and spearheads any hole it can find.
It begins whistling around the dim room like a tornado elated to havoc behind a castle's walls.
The tree bark howls, the leaves, now delight.
We learn there is no reprieve for a begging champion.
The camera backs out of the splintered hole, and pans over a silhouetted forest to face the waning moon.
The hero succumbs with muted screams to a gore far below and out of frame.

Our only closure, a black screen, with bright white letters, slowly scrolling up.


The end.
Just something I had fun writing, figured not posting it would be a waste despite it not being "poetry", just an experiment I guess. I feel like it would be good, in like, a high-school, short story competition. *****.
The fire that kept you warm, could take your ******* house,
For ***** sake it could always just burn out.
Drop you off in some dead town,
And somehow through that, you have found, that you don't even know yourself.
Cause the things that you love could burn you down,
Whether it fades or goes out loud.
The things that you love could burn you down.
The ending only seems worse for now.
As this world degrades,
And we've had enough of the old ways.

I can only wonder what becomes,
After this new birth,
Decays.

I know this world's rules,
And those before,

And I may know of what comes next,

But I will not know what rules,
As they call the next of next,

The fool.
My blood pressure hasn't dropped, since the heart attack.
My heart hasn't stopped, since yours stopped beating.
Your heart hasn't started beating, since I stopped singing.
I haven't stopped singing to you, since the heart attack.
The rain is a positive thing. As it fills our reservoirs.
Yet it's so attuned to standing for the sadness in our hearts.
I appreciate the rain. For being something that is so cold,
Yet brings life all the same, to these, such weary bones.
I think of someone with a flamethrower when I think of you.
Burning the world,
Yet making it colder too.
I almost want him to.

Why do I want this?
I'm an idiot,
Filled up with options.
One part calm,
Two parts storm,
Three parts shipwreck on the shore.

Four parts home,
More parts gone,
All parts missing the calm before.
Since when have dreams been so vivid?
I heard that happens when you're depressed.
Everyone is just an image,
Of who you are when you're undressed.
You'll never see my messy house,
She'll never see me so stressed out.
You'll never hear an I'm so sorry.
Apologies for what I've broken.
I just wish I could show her I can change and am changing **** it. But it's already over, and this is better..
And after a thousand days of knowing you.
I've drowned now, by drowning you.
After a half dozen plays at knowing who,
I'm down now, because it wasn't you.
I may be all in black,
But promise inside is darker,
Haven't you ever heard?
Never judge a book by it's cover.
I won't rush myself,
It'll be just like you.
Eyes locked, and so we knew,
Love at first sight;
We'll fall like two fools.
Who knew I wrote this for you.. jezuz. I hate that as much as I love it.. For the record the title is an inside joke, hue. I've edited this poem into oblivion rofl. I wish there was an edit history... agk.
One day we won't have this skin.
Our bright eyes may even sink.
Without Summer days,
or our cheap wine for veins.

Though we had coming things,
though we had dreams,

we couldn't know.

The past only a day ago,
then two years to four.
Eight seemed a ways,
now,
A decades erased.

Time seems the *****,
too steep to be paved.
5/07/18
My life is on the clock,
It seems I'm cold and lost.
My life is on the clock.
Ticking my way to empty thought.
My life is on the clock
Inching, to fully dark.
So what the **** do I want?
I want you, to touch my heart.
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