I can’t remember when I forgot
The word that I want just seems to be lost
Your name disappeared into the grave
I keep trying and telling myself not to save

The last memories I have of your face
Kept in photographs giving me a trace
Of what we had but now that will be gone
I realize I used to be a pawn

In this sick game you put me through
Now I’m glad I can’t remember you

me?
liking you?
what makes you think that?
the playlist I made about you?
the smile that appears on my face at the thought of you?
the eyes I only have for you?
the way I had to play it off when you liked someone else?
the way my heart skips a beat when I see you?
the way my face turns red when I'm near you?
the way I had to accept you didn't reach back?

me?
like you?
what makes you think that?

my wrists are red
and my mind has gone blue
clinging to brief release so sweet
as my vision blurs with a dark hue

Hello

Why does that little wheel spin?
Why does my patience wear thin?

Where are the poems I seek to read?
Where is the solution that we need?

Please repair the sites buffering
Please end our incessant suffering

We want to feel through others words
We want to work towards

Poetry

Is poetry like rubbing salt on already open wounds,
or is it what heals them?

Is it the cure to the poison present in our soul,
or is it, instead, the bane of what we feel?

what if in lieu,

poetry is what keeps mankind alive
through words once unsaid and unwritten.

It carries on our prophecy
and alleviates the vague suffering
present in the deep pit of our insufferable, mortal minds.

Poetry,
is the way our soul inevitably bleeds.

Even if you burn my heart
until there's nothing left but ashes,
I'd still adore the flames
that ignite us for eternity.

I'm tired of writing letters
I'll never send
expecting they'll give me clarity
but leading me to a dead-end

J'ai fatigue de lui
is how you say it in French
it's not a language you understand
so I'll say this instead:
Estoy cansada de ti
I'm tired of you
and of the energy you bring

I'll write my poems about you
in old notebooks
I'll use the pages to write letters
I'll burn
but you'll never get