whoever said that love is the greatest muse,
was a total bullshitter,
for i have never been happier
in that aspect of my life

and as a result,

the ink has dried in my mind,

i am a writer no more,
just a girl in love with a boy;
how incredibly dull.

I have heard about losing lovers,
I know about it,
It's like a flower losing colour,
And It happens,
What I did not know,
Is losing a friend,
Chatting and calling them "bro",
But in the end,
They never needed me,
I was just a follow along nobody,
They were my best friends,
And now they don't care for me,
Even if the world ends,
Losing a lover,
Is like a flower with no colour,
Losing a friend,
Is like a dying flower,
Wilted and bent!

poetry is easy because
my thoughts which are so fragmented
i can lay them on paper
and fragmented is no longer
conjoined by stanza and meter
poetry creates thought
out of concated neural signals
and it makes sense
it's so much easier than writing

which is like squeezing the juice out of a dry lemon
or something
of incredible effort and herculean force
writing requires
direction and focus and foresight
far beyond what i can provide

and poetry i jsut ramble and it becomes
an art form i am ok with and i just spit
and it's great and free

where as when i write i am constrained
by second guessing and creative loathing

poetry is easy.

this time last year,
you tried to scoop my heart up,
I threw it at you.

this time last year,
you liked me for who I was,
and I was terrible.

this time last year,
you thought you could love me,
and I was fickle.

last summer,
you thought it was our time,  
and I knocked you back.

last summer,
you wanted me more than before,
and I went along with it.

this autumn,
I hesitated before I left, did I love you back?
the answer is probably yes.

this autumn,
I walked away from you,
and fell for somebody else.

tonight,
I know that I made the right choice,
I love the boy I chose,
but this poem is for you
because I loved you also;

*and I probably always will.

I was sad for a long time,
12 long months ticking by,
not sad all the time of course,
but the hue of my first year was definitely
tinged blue

I fell in love, carelessly,
but I couldn't quite let him in,
amongst the tears and the other boy kisses;
he just wasn't welcome in my heart
my head had overruled it.

And they say to you,
when you least expect it, it will happen
and it did
someone else came and kissed me better,
patched me up and
made my kidneys shiver

And now, I'm not sad anymore,
I am still lost and misguided for sure
but I have all of these lovely feelings
hanging above me like a starry night
And I am riddled with cliche,
I want him and only him;

this is an ode to sadness,
for it treated me well;
it taught me to let people in,
whilst maintaining a cynics heart and
a fickle brain.

this is an ode to sadness,
I am just sorry to the boy I loved at the wrong time.