last night i found out that you still hold a cigarette between your lips and i just want to smack your stupid face for not quitting,
but what hurts me even more is that you didn't offer me yours and i have been thinking of buying one pack myself and drowning myself in pity and coughed smoke/

what i hate to admit is that you look even more beautiful with a cigarette between your fingers but i refuse to go back to my old self, to the old me who loved the boy with no heart, with smoke in his lungs instead of air, the boy with charming smile, because he wasn't even real, it was a person my mind had created in hopes he would become even more beautiful than he already was/

but at least i hope you had fun on new years and i'm thankful that some girl's lips weren't pressed against yours at midnight, but i don't love you anymore, so i don't know why i even care/

but even with smoke in his mouth, i knew i wanted to kiss him and savor his taste, which i only had presumptions of-
maybe his tongue was a mixture of mint and hurricane or strawberries and sun kissed rose pedals or maybe chocolate and rain but i felt dizzy and out of place when the realization hit me that i will never find out how his lips tasted and felt against mine/

It would be so easy to **** myself.
I've gone through every possibility,
They're all so easy.
So why am I still here?
I don't want to be.
What is keeping me here?
I really don't know.

The poems I write to tell a story are never popular.
It seems the ones I almost don't post,
The ones I'm writing just for myself,
Are the ones people like the most.
When I joined here it was just to express myself,
Not expecting anyone to actually read my poems.
I was astonished when I got my first like.
I didn't know how they found me.
So I used a fake name, so nobody will ever know who I am.
Because this isn't me.
I don't write poetry and have emotions.
I make fun of poetry because I have no emotions.
At least that's what everyone else thinks...
Thank you anonymous poetry for allowing me to be me and express me.

the world is cold inside me
too cold to feel the pain
the pain that has become a part of my cold self
the pain of birth and death
the pain of being apart from you.

Ever since I made my decision to be on my own path
to be away, though to be in touch
i have missed that December we'd spent together
and had warmed each other.

Since then each December revives the memories
of the time we'd spent together
but then soon they fade away under the bright colors of New Year.

Life goes on, and on till "the last syllable of recorded time
....the way to dusty death"

You're peter pan and I'm tinkerbell
Someday peter pan will find his wendy while tinkerbell will only watch them from a far