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Are all lunatics obsessed with the moon?
I see your face
Distorted by water
But as I breathe out,
I see nothing but bubbles
Then everything is gone
*And all I see is blue
I found a website with poem ideas and so I wrote down like 15.
How to know if you're in love?
Well, do you cry at night?
Have you ever seen someone and been so incredibly happy that they exist
But so devastated that they're not yours?
When they smile, do you get weak?
If yes, then you might be in love.
She wore yellow shoes on her wedding day,
They reminded her of the sun,
She wore a blackened garter,
To remind her of what he'd done,

She wore a deep green eye pencil,
To remind her of meadows true,
Red upon her cheeks so pale,
Enlightened her eyes cold blue,

She wore a clinging silken gown,
Caressing her curvy form,
The brightest white, as white as snow,
That glistened in the dawn,

Around her neck a silver chain,
As silver as her hair,
She sat alone, elegantly,
In her old dusty armchair,

Fifty years had passed away,
Like the flight of an albatross,
Her shoulders weighted heavily,
As she carried her burdened cross,

For on that day, her wedding day,
She waited and waited more,
He never showed, and left her there,
He'd left her alone once more,

She stared into the looking glass,
As her life had passed her by,
But every May, she wore the dress,
And a tear fell from her eye,

She wore yellow shoes on her wedding day,
They reminded her of the sun,
And now the blackened garter,
Lay on the floor undone.
The way the sea
Forgets to calm
Or how the wind
Forgets to sing
I will forget my sadness
When I see you
idk
The clock strikes 3:30 and the pit behind the school opens.
We feast on the smell of burning skin and sunscreen.
There is chaos as instruments are strewn across the back room,
No exits and the doors are blocked.
My eyes slide past his but I'm too burned out to care.
Freshmen are the worst,
Insisting on acting as if
They are four year olds.
Not a second late, for Whit is never late.
I have lost feeling in my legs
Still I have perfect
Technique just as he does. Water.
Water does not have an existence in this world.
Heat and sun have taken over.
Our tuba players have given up,
There they lay down in the burning
Grass. He never complains.
As I'm close to my breaking point,
Air no longer passes my
Lips and not one note escapes my keys.
The perfect string of notes and rhythm
Sound from my left. He never missed
A note.
March it back,
March it back,
March it back sixteen counts.
An endless routine.
Opening set.
These single words are bitter sweet.
In ten minutes I am free to go home
And write poetry about him.
Me
I want to describe your eyes the way a poet can describe the sea
Though I am no poet
I am just me
I haven't been on in a very long time.
I can see the veins in his arms when he walks
And I can see the blue in his eyes when he laughs
And I wish that I could hold his hand and kiss his lips
But I'm so far away from doing that and I don't even know how to get closer,
But oh god, do I want to be his.
I like this guy two grades above me named Andrew and I want to die.

— The End —