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I love her.
No not ******* worldly,
But softly, purely , celestially.
Obsessively?
Not necessarily, just completely,
selfishly and I'm sorry.
I love her unconditionally, some say unconventionally.
But they don't understand me.
Yes...I love her.
Most spiritually, asexually, platonically and wholly.
I love her, truly, honestly, musically and poetically...
She doesn't have to love me.
Your looks may fade... my love shall not.
 Dec 2017 She Writes
xmelancholix
One of my favorite songs is by a guy named Watsky, it’s called sloppy seconds. It used to mean so much more, but I’ve grown . And now I’m here, and you ring, and I pick up, and it’s all for you.
You told me that it's your fault, but how I have to do this for you. I told you
“But you’re my friend, so I suppose I owe you trying to clean up this mess”
I need to pick up your pain. I’m listening to the song and thinking about all the times that have numbed me to taking up other people’s sloppy seconds but the song always told me
“I don’t care where you've been, how many miles, I’ll still love you”     and so i did.
I still do for some others. Please understand, this is not all  ̶f̶o̶r̶  you.
I stopped you.
I caught this one.
I’m holding this a dustpan for the cremains of this mess and picked up the shattered urn of feelings.
I handed you the broom. Whether you use it or not is your decision.
It’ll get cleaned up in the end, either way.
I WANT TO DO THIS OUT OF LOVE NOT OUT OF PROTECTION.
WHAT THE ****.
122017
 Dec 2017 She Writes
Scott
Words
 Dec 2017 She Writes
Scott
I wrote something once.
I don't know where it came from,
or when it will come again.
I try so hard to put words on a page
so I can feel like myself,
but still they don't sound like me.

Words burn in my chest and
I can't spit them out.
Beer cools them, and so I drink it.
But the words go to my heart
and they squeeze and squeeze
and then I lose them.

They mean much to no one,
and not to me.
But left alone they squirm
and squeeze and shout
so I can't hear what they mean
or what I'm trying to think.

I can't get rid of them.

When I listen, they help.
When I don't, they burn.
I want to spit them all over,
so you can feel what they do to me.
But only if you're ready.

They're like worms, the words.
They eat, and sleep and breed,
and there's more of them.
And there'll be more tomorrow,
and if I can't get rid of them
they'll eat me alive.

When I put them on a page,
they stay still.
And then more come,
and I'll catch them too, hopefully.
Then they'll stay still
so you can see them.

The words.
 Dec 2017 She Writes
Greg Dempsey
Stuck in the shell I can't shed
Help me, I'm locked in my head
No one can hear me scream, not even plead
Cutting my arms, watching them bleed
I can't take much more, someone end this pain
Ready to take a bullet to the brain
It too much to bare, just let it end
I beg and cry, but the message doesn't send
Louder and louder, but no one can hear me scream
Too much pain, too much, please is this just a dream
No one can help me now, I'm all alone
They can't hear my painful tone
Someone please, hear my cries
I yell and yell, but no one tries
I guess no one cares, no one is listening
My tears roll down glistening
I'll shut up and put on a smile
I'll walk a broken glass mile
Just know the smile I wear is to hide
I am eternally broken inside
 Dec 2017 She Writes
a
12.7.17
 Dec 2017 She Writes
a
why can't anyone
just anyone
be proud of me for once in my ******* life?
If I could meet you again for the first time,
I would.
10 times over
And every time,
I would choose you.

If we met at the park,
it would be autumn.
We would see each other there everyday, walking alone,
and one day,
we would look up,
a little nervous,
and say, hey there,
and then, some how, we would end up walking together
hardly saying a word,
as if we had known each other our entire lives.

If we met at work,
I would say hi,
and you would ask, how are you,
and that would be all.
Until one day you would offer to carry my bag and walk me to my car,
and I would unlock the door to get in,
but it would hang there open, long after I planned to leave.

If we met at in line at the book store,
I would ask you what you were buying,
and you would launch into a story, describing the movie or book or whatever you held in your hands,
and as you explained,
your eyes would get really big and your hands would move all around, trying to describe how much you love it.

If we met as kids,
we would race up the slide,
and play tag,
and I would pretend I didn't like to be caught,
but secretly I did,
and we would hide in the wooden castle,
and make up stories,
and miss each other after we went home.

If we met in class,
we would sit next to each other the first day by accident,
but we would become friends.
You would be early everyday and save my seat,
and I would come just in time,
and when I got sick, you would give me your notes,
and when the other wasn't there, the empty chair beside us would swallow the whole room.

If we met when we're old,
I would see you greet the receptionist in the doctor's office,
and watch you laugh about something she said and thank her, your eyes sparkling and kind.
And, at 70, I wouldn't care about subtlety anymore,
so I would go sit down next to you and ask why you aren't married
and you would say, because I've been waiting for you.
 Dec 2017 She Writes
Jay
Damaged people love you like a crime scene
Before any crime had been committed
They kept their running shoes right next to their souls every night
One eye opened in case something changed whilst they were asleep

Damaged people love in the most broken way
Damaged people love in the most gentle way
Damaged people do not love
Damaged people love too much

Their backs are always too tense, too tight
Made this way from carrying too many broken things
Because we all know broken things are the heaviest
Just look the weight of a broken heart

Damaged people will love that too
Damaged people love broken things
Because they remind them of themselves

Damaged people take broken things
And love them to the end
Trying to find that one broken thing
That will fit their cracks.

Damaged people love so well

They love like this because they have already seen Hell
And they know that every evil demon
Was once an angel before they fell.
 Dec 2017 She Writes
Lexie
Rejection
 Dec 2017 She Writes
Lexie
My wildest dream is this
That I would mean to you
What you have always been to me
 Dec 2017 She Writes
Ben
Mind
 Dec 2017 She Writes
Ben
I lose myself in my mind at night
You always tell me it will be alright
But too bad that this time it isn’t
I feel trapped inside this prison
Overthinking is so problematic
All these thoughts make me feel like an addict
My mood, it always stays static
I finally tell them everything
And that’s when they start to panic
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