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arubybluebird Dec 2014
****** absorbing the blood in me
my ******* aren't like in the magazines
eyes darker than the coffee you drink
you do not love me because you don't know how to love
indifferences come to me in threes
two for you, one for me
I cannot bring myself to feel today
I've forgotten how to wish

sitting, laughing, smoking, crying
dying in the inn
arubybluebird Dec 2014
The shade of my skin is identical to yours
    But our voices are not the same.

2. You are a flower. A flower is a feeling.

3. I can tell that you need someone close.

4. Our photographs will seem so old to us one day.

5. I've so much I feel the need to tell you
    But I am running out of words to say.

6. Lover, please destroy me.
arubybluebird Nov 2014
the thought of having *** makes me ill
this place holds the time we first kissed
go backwards with me
stay, lets lay underneath the moon for another year
I'm bored of the constant mention of the heart
of the condition of my own
of not knowing whether yours keeps its blood moving for mine
I've become indifferent to the gentle heedlessness of the world
I have your hands to wipe my tears with now
arubybluebird Nov 2014
missing you is a stupid thing for me to do, but I do it anyway
arubybluebird Nov 2014
I remember the first time I had my heart broken
except I really don't
it's just that familiar sense, that familiar feeling
of feeling less than everything
of wanting so badly
to not exist, to have never been born
to die a hundred deaths
and have every ***** in my body
completely torn to shreds
anything to never feel the way I'm feeling

nights are so strange
there is a world we are missing out on while we are asleep
the night is filled with noises we'll never live to hear
during the day

reflections are so strange
shadows are so sad
so much time wasted trying to get to know your image
through a mirror
a mirror, your only self

could it be that the blind see more clearly?
paintings and photographs, sickening nostalgia
what use will have my photograph
when I'm no longer here?
will you remember me a while longer?
will you still think of me as strange?

I'm thinking of a few things to consider
this tends to happen a lot around 2 : 03 A.M.

I was thinking
of perhaps
putting an ad in the penny saver
submitting a few poems
submitting my phone number and
some pathetic description
a description sincere

"I am sad
I am lonely
I am just as lost as you
I want to know your story
you can't sleep, and neither can I
sooner or later
we are going to die
talk on the phone with me"


I'm not very fond of summer
I feel lovely in the fall
winter is sad, cold, and romantic
it reminds me of my youth

I miss wearing sweaters
I'll be twenty-one soon
I want to get drunk
I'm already lost
I want to be wild

I want to kiss strangers
I want a beautiful body and beautiful hair
I want to live in stupidity
and travel the world by train, trolley,  
and aero plane

I want to be asleep

I could be dreaming right now
it's all ending, keep writing
it doesn't matter, but it does

one day I'll be happy
I'll be lovely soon enough
arubybluebird Nov 2014
I wouldn’t mind dying while listening to The Dodos. It’d be a lovely way to die. It still rattles my mind a bit, the assurance of my image one day being but a photograph left behind. I want my words to make a stranger feel something inexplicable, decades from now, centuries after my death. Perhaps from reading a particular line from one of my collected books of poetry, perhaps from reading a folded note I left hidden between the pages of one of my favourite books at a public library. I hope libraries still exist far into the future. It worries me that record stores might someday cease to exist. I think I worry for all the wrong reasons, and find meaning in things that have none. I think about death too much. There’s just as much sadness as there is well-being. It’s all around us, on our evening walks home from school, in the stillness of gaps between shifts of dreams, in the gestures of communal passerby’s. It’s all so simple and complex and beautiful and overwhelming. I think losing yourself in thought is one of the most intimate ways in finding yourself.
I think, I think, I think.
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