I love him
I tell myself
I know that
We will be together forever
I don’t believe that
We could be separated
My thoughts tell me that
He’s the love of my life
Sometimes my heart lies and says
I could live an eternity
Like my friends say
“We’re perfect for each other”
And you can’t tell me
He’s not the one.
Now read from bottom to top.
The arrow is drawn back, held steady, and released from the Cupid’s bow.
As It turns, twists, and dances, trivial environmental disturbances are made evident
Though every inhalation pierces my lungs like a flicker from the eye of the serpentine queen herself
It’s organic neighbor is slowly revived and and rises in speed
I feel atmosphere thin and calm around me as the conical burn falls stripping me of my quiver
And all I have left is a
There’s a certain romance brought on by the wind
Often times I felt as though each day returned to the same state of tedious repetition as those preceding it.
I’ve complained about this since a fold on the corner of my favorite book meant my life was at a certain end-
and yet, the response my mother gives has always remained static.
“You are the painter of your life and you may depict it as you please.”
I have tried to etch this monotonous phrase into my skull but even from an early age,
I have understood that I’m no Van Gogh.
I will never be Bansky nor will my crimes ever be treasured or valued.
I am just a commoner expected to fit the mold that those before have set.
But as of late, bent pages don’t seem to bother much, for the story within remains the same.
Despite the imperfection, I still fall in love with the characters;
I feel heartbreak just as I did before and satisfaction at the turn of each page.
But good books are filled with stains, crumbles, rips, tears, and damaged spines.
Novels contain these because we have taken them with us and they have been enjoyed.
The only ones that don’t are those that sit idle on a shelf in the corner of our bedrooms.
I now realize that the reason my existence felt so dull was because I kept it on that very shelf in fear of tatter and wear, as most of us are.
I now take it everywhere I can knowing that every drop of water,
every stray mark of a pen,
and every trip in the bottom of my bag just separates mine from it’s identical counterparts
and I think that’s something we all could drink to.
You are the opalite
In my shaking hands
Each angle shows
A New fluorescent gem
And as I sit and weep
You reveal what hurts
I thought that loneliness
Made me happier...
sticks and stones
may break my bones
but words will
slowly **** me...
words make wounds that never heal