i would much rather see dried tears on my pillow than another person in the same bed with me.
not putting more strain on an already broken and irrepairable heart by letting someone in again.
loneliness comforts more than the warmth of another nowadays and that’s how i will stay.
that is the way it’ll remain.
a view through the windowpane was the last thing she left
added to the silhouette of a bloodstain on the bed we use to share where she stole my heart as i laid
covered by sheets still felt by my soul.
5 years of my life, gone.
i love me
could you ever, truly?
the way you make me feel is
unsettlingly unruly towards self
i couldn’t hurt you the way you’ve done me
it’s not in the cards nor my heart
for it belongs to you.
seems i can only finish writing when i’m drunk so i’m sorry if i’m not doing well with this anymore than i have been
I tend to do this unforgiving
method of maddness when it comes to writing
I'll start and stop, repeating onto new work
unfinishing the last.
incomplete as each piece may be,
the brain is scattered
lost and afraid, it'll never feel the same way.
connected to what new beginnings
I could tell you more about the hurt
inflicted into us by what we thought was love
and to find it be an inevitable pain
followed by tears that flow off the face
and the guilt that maybe it was out fault.
we NEVER get the love we deserve,
manipulated and programmed the generational stigma
to love one more than yourself and unfulfilling
what we as the human race should've
been instilled with was self love.
too busy lost in the social media haze of
losing yourself into everything that we
forget to love ourselves
forgetting we have to do that before we
can truly love any one person.
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 write them in my notes
keep them like postcards
i cannot bring myself to send
i want to tell you i'm sorry
because i am
i'm really sorry
that was the best we could do
that i asked too much of you
i acted so selfish
it has taken me so long
i cannot bring myself to send
the **** postcard
I planted a seed
I watched it grow.
I watered it daily
I loved it so.
Every morning I opened my eyes
So I could admire you.
And you used to look back at me
and you admired me too.
But I looked to the horizon,
and I saw death in the sky.
Then, the storm took you away from me
and I couldn't understand why.
It's been a long time
since I lost my sweet, pretty flower
Sometimes I want to plant a new one
But I don't think it will grow.
Sometimes I feel like I've already planted one
Other times I feel like I never did.
Maybe I planted it but never watered it.
I don't really know.
I want to ask you to be my sweet, pretty flower
But I think I forgot how.