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The friend zone has two sides:
On one, the poor soul is trapped
Hopelessly longing for one who turns a blind cheek.
You sympathize with them,
because they suffer for having emotions.
They cannot be asked to stifle their passion.
Yet here in this pit, all emotions are paralyzed,
Who could be so vile as to banish someone to this place?

The other side is much different.
Not many strong emotions.
But there certainly isn't happiness, or even peace.
The overwhelming feelings are pity, solemn, and overwhelming power.
This vile person has so much power over the poor soul.
But did they ask for that power?
Did they even want that power?
No, they want to be equal, not above.

Fully aware of the pain they have caused, they are sorry.
To all of you.  Not just the people they have personally caused pain,
But to all of you who have fallen for someone like them and was burned,
It is unintended, and is painful for them too.
They feel evil and wrong, but have their own obsession.  
They love their partner as much as you think you love them.  
And they want nothing more than for all of you to find the person who is really meant for you.

Like I have.

You won't be happy with me.
Because I won't be happy with you.
But someone will.  
And while you're wasting your time over me,
the person meant for you is waiting for you, longing for the hole in their own heart to be filled.

Don't continue to suffer, and don't keep them waiting.
I feel responsible for your scars. But only they can heal them for you.
I have fallen in love with the lilac trees
oh how i long to be the gentle wind
that blows slowly through their leaves

i could speak ceaselessly for a thousand years
and still not explain why
your magnificence brings me to tears

i looked upon your sunkissed face
and for a moment
the vicissitudes of the fates
seemed a little less vicious
the winds a little less harsh
and the world a little less cruel.

heaven is a real place,
and it is a few inches of skin
just below your nose.

i am a man of many words and metaphors
but none of them can accurately describe
the simple beauty of the fact
that you are mine
and i am yours.

i wish to give you the world two times over
and three more times just because.

i was so lost amongst the wilds
and yet you still found me.

the pair of hands i've never held
are the ones i am dying to hold.
Poems aren't always written
With a paper an pencil
They aren't always typed
In ink and with a signature
Sometimes poems are written
With the lips of a teary-eyed lover
Or the laughter of a young hospital patient
Or even the silence of two comfortable friends
I still have
the note you wrote,
kissed with your raspberry lipstick,
licked with your bedtime ink.

For years, left to dry
in a drawer, inhaling the dark,
I found it, like a stale apple,
blushing yellow.

I understand the words now,
the loops, the curves, a fairground ride,
that's what we were
before the carpet scorched our knees.

Did you keep the one
that I wrote you?
No, maybe, torn at the top
and stuffed somewhere.

I let your message breathe again,
swallow the days,
this red stain rages upon my eyes,
a note with no writer, how it all fades.
Written: July 2013.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time - not based on real events.
 Jun 2013 Asphyxiophilia
verdnt
I love the girl who is too young to smoke cigarettes but lights them anyway. She sits on the high school bleachers at 9 on a Sunday night, gets tired of the smoke in her eyes, and tosses eventual death in the trash can.
I love the girl who has never enjoyed the taste of alcohol but feels like Holly Golightly when she holds a glass of Cabernet so she drinks it anyway. She sits in her grandfather’s lounge chair on a Monday night, plays the songs he taught her on the *****, neglects her English essay, and leaves the red remains in the bottle.
I love the girl who cannot stand the sound of my guitar, but pretends to like acoustics because she knows the music brings out the best in me, and that even if she asks me to stop, I will play anyway. She lies on the floor on a Tuesday night, wishing she were in another town too small to be called a city, listens to melodies that remind her of where she is, ignores my creations and leaves my heart in her hands as she finally falls asleep.
I've never understood benches in graveyards.
we sit on them and grieve over a lost life
that we can no longer see.
I wonder if the dead sit by us
and grieve over the life that we
are wasting as we sit next to them.

maybe the benches are for the dead.
maybe it's so they can sit beside us
and comfort us when we cry out their name.
I wonder if they sit there and think,
"why me? why am I here and not there?"

maybe the benches are for the living.
maybe it's so they can sit down when
their bodies are too weak to stand.
perhaps it's because it makes them
feel closer to their loved
one's permanent home in the earth.
I wonder if they sit there and think,
"why me? why am I here and not there?"

I've never understood benches in graveyards.
maybe we sit there next to ghosts
with common interests
and no way to comfort each other.
maybe the benches are there so
the living and the dead can
ask the same questions
and wonder the same things
and from worlds apart
not feel so alone.

a.d.
the greatest advice
I've ever been given
was to try everything
at least once,
so I could form my
own opinion.

I tried counting
the constellations,
and sleeping
under the moon.
I can still remember
how much I loved
the pirouettes
of the fireflies.

I tried running
away from lions,
and stealing
wishes from the sea,
I remember
how I woke up
screaming.

maybe that advice
wasn't as great
as I made it
out to be.
because I tried
falling in love,
and I can tell you
right now,
that I'm still trying
to figure out
how I feel about that.


a.d.
He came to me one night
when I was cold and alone,
I was halfway through with it,
an inch from the bone.
He whispered so gently
as he laid me down on the bed,
"what aspect of life
put these thoughts in your head?"

"I don't breathe like I used to,"
I told him, as his image blurred,
"I ask for their help
but they don't say a word."
His vice like fingers
clamped onto my wrist,
"Not on this night, child.
You don't die like this."

Before I could figure out
what I thought he meant,
he opened his mouth,
"my dear, be patient.
For life is a hurdle
in the relay of death,
your time on this earth
is not over yet.

"When you reach the finish
then I'll come for you,
but until that moment,
here's what you'll do;
each problem that throws
itself in your sight,
promise me you won't
give up with no fight.

"The days when you
think you're over and done,
just look in the mirror,
you've already won.
Because you made it this far
through so many years,
you've conquered your demons
and outweighed your fears.

"The pills in the bottle
can wait a while longer,
because with each passing day
you've gotten much stronger.
I don't offer my help
to little girls who suffer,
I'll be breaking the hearts
of the ones that love her.

"Do you see now, child,
what I'm saying to you?
Your time is not up,
your life will ensue."
I bit down on my lip,
and nodded my head,
and just like that,
he disappeared from my bed.

That was the time,
that Death saved my life,
so if you ever want to end it,
just remember his advice.
Don't think of the pain,
and how it'll end soon,
because Death talks a lot,
when he enters your room.


a.d.
 Jun 2013 Asphyxiophilia
verdnt
this is very jumpy. i have been up for 24 hours. i don't know

There are miles between us on the queen sized bed and all I know right now is *words words words
and nothing spilling from chapped lips. Passion and lust and I need you's coming out in the form of long kisses and hands-on-my-chest types of expressionism. This isn't the kind of dizzy your momma warned you about. Deep sea swimming inside your head and I'm trying to figure out a way to mean more than just someone you want in your bed. There's a tug at the bottom of my navel pulling me away from the edge, but I've already dived in. Sparks flew where your careful fingers met my hip bones, but lightning struck where your feelings for me lay and with a thunder clap they were gone as fast as rain slides down a window.
The night I found out I was not important to you, regret was just a knot in my throat. But now, it is a hand choking my heart. How beautiful it would be for you to understand just how much I miss you.
I only wanted someone to hold me like I was the source of every bit of his happiness. This wasn't love but it sure as hell felt like it, or more like it than my hand being guided to the zipper of your jeans.
I can't think much else beyond 'I miss you' and it makes me want to crawl out of my skin. Why can't I write about anything or anyone but you? I still can't shake the notion that this is a feeling best tried to outrun.
Our story is a half-packed suitcase. I will tell myself that this is going to be okay, that I am going to be okay. Even though I really think it won't be.
never fall in love with the girl who writes poems about you
she’ll end up caring for you more than she cares about poetry
and that will mean destruction for both of you
she will compare you to the stars and the breath out of her own lungs
and she will count the minutes until she can be with you next
this is entirely troublesome, especially if you don’t feel the same way
although if you don’t, a heartache will be cause for more inspiration
I suppose love is a win win situation for writers-
fall in love, you have inspiration
fall out of it, you have inspiration

never fall in love with the girl who writes poems about you
she will get to attached
she will love you too much
she will fall in love with the curve of your spine
and the form of your smile
and the structure of your bones
and the placement of your words on her mouth
and the way your hair falls floppily out of place
and the way you don’t love her at all

never fall in love with a writer
never fall in love with the girl who writes poems about you
never fall in love with me
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