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addicted to your lips
and the poetry it speaks
and every time we kiss
oh darling im in bliss
oh bella luna
poor is your beloved wolf
loving from afar
and for some reason
i only write sad poems
poems about missing you
writing words that break my heart
and i keep wondering
if you are my secret muse
the pain you caused me
is my spirit of inspiration
pulsing through my veins
making me cry
giving me words
to fill my every move
and without noticing
i manage to become someone new
with stories to tell
mostly about you
and mostly about
love and all the lost time
trying to move on from everything
moving on from you
writing more words
always about you
my knife in the back
the Romeo to my Juliette
some soppy love story
about how you never loved me

I'm lost in the never ending pit of my own confusion
Swaying left to right
Held up only by the wind blowing me to and fro

If only my feelings could make their opinion known,
But they long to remain hidden among the whispers of the swirling breeze

I attempt to stand
Only to be knocked back to the dust
Which leaves me dizzy and disoriented

If only the whirling tempest would cease to throw its fiery darts,
But they fail to notice me calling for a ceasefire

So I am left, lost and astray, on the cold ground,
While the gusts continue to becloud the world around me.
That feeling
When you don't know what to say
That feeling
When you don't want to stay

That feeling
When you think you're in love
That feeling
When someone breaks your trust

That feeling
When day fades into night
That feeling
When you're tired of the fight

That feeling
When you finally understand
That feeling
When you stop giving a ****

That feeling
That you're feeling
That I'm feeling
That we're feeling

That feeling is us
When words don't quite do the feeling justice, you write poetry.
The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.
A little escape from the madness.
Or maybe, into.
I know I chose this
This cage
This maze

This prizon
This haze

                                    In this exile
                                I am safe

                    feeling fragile
                             but still my mind's
                                               ­     slave
I did this to myself.
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