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 Oct 2017 Useless Stardust
mi
The best poems are all about
loss and pain and suffering.
It feels more natural to write a poem
about a long lost memory,
Or a love that never worked.

Poets aren't allowed to be happy.
They’d run out of material to write about.

The words
content and happy
in the same sentence as the word
I'm,
feels like your tongue
never sitting right in your mouth,
like teeth getting in the way
when making out
like an itchy throat,
not going away even after coughing a fit.

The phrases
You are and my boyfriend
can't be a real sentence
like how
unicorns and fairytales
don't exist.
They just feel like
two jigsaw pieces
from different parts of the puzzle
forced to sit beside each other.

The word love
just doesn’t resonate
with the beat of my heart.
Maybe because
my heart stopped beating
a long time ago
and my brain had to carry the workload
so I think twice as much as I should
synonyms?
I overthink.

I may be the only poet
who doesn’t want to be happy;
a ******* clinging to heartbreak,
and loss and pain and suffering.
because it’s easier to let heartbreak
wrap myself in its familiar arms
than to experience an adventure
with happiness wrapped in mine.
i don't know how to love

-d.j.
Something is missing says the
white cozy room. She was tired
says the empty coffee cup on a
pile of old dusty books by the black
backpack. She had worked all night
creating a new thick book, says the
lonenly large pen with almost no ink.
She need sleep, says the un-made
bed; and she was cold says the hut
wood in the big chimney newly off.

She had a rough week. says the
aspirings lying next to the blue bottle
of water on the night table. But she
couldn't stop reading my tory, says
the book open half way. She needed
to relax says the cheesy music station.
Tomorrow is the first day of winter
vacation says s the school books and
papers on the black table like
snowflakes in winter.

She needs to start thinking about herself
says the black window with a view to
the lonely and large swing int e small
backyard. Also to believe in her dreams
says the white pillow in the bed. She is
beautiful as well as her name says
small diary. But she doesn't think that
way says the rectangular white mirror.

She loves to laugh says the picture
with a lot of smile people in it. She has been crying lately, says the blue box of Kleenex. She had the power to
get ut back says the slight strips of light
passing through the window. Something
was missing the white room says.

— The End —