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Avery Greensmith Jan 2014
Once I wrote a poem about you
but that'd be wrong would it be?
I would a gazillion poems about you
my precious words were scattered around the universe
in the form of some ****** love poems
for a boy that didn't even care
that I spent my life writing and writing
and then it all fell apart, and suddenly,
the only words were about you

I made excuses and I made jokes
just a stupid teenager with a silly crush
but it felt so much more than that,
and I thought you agreed.

but here am I again,
wasting those words I need on you
because I'll never quite loose the sight of your face
or the way you talked about yourself,
when I found out how burnt and bruised you were.

This is another love poem,
with no meaning except if your eyes ever
glance across this page
perhaps you'll know the truth
about the words I've scattered into the universe
about you.
Avery Greensmith Oct 2013
The little kids we used to be,
still play like the kids we were,
but now it’s graveyards instead of a playground.
Instead of dress-up costumes,
it’s makeup lathered to our faces,
we must be like those perfect pictures in magazines.
We play boyfriends and girlfriends instead of hopscotch,
anorexia instead of basketball.
Instead of storybooks, it’s facebook posts telling us
we don’t deserve to live.
We used to wear those colorful sillybandz,
and trade them with each other,
but now it’s scars from a razor
we wish we could take off.
It was always begging for seconds of ice cream,
but now it’s sneaking away to throw up the
little amount of food they make you eat.
Instead of staring at a summer campfire
waiting to roast marshmallows,
we stare at the fire waiting to burn ourselves.
Instead of angry first graders getting into a fistfight,
the anger now directs the punch to ourselves.
We used to sneak Halloween candy,
trying to stuff ourselves,
but now you sneak pills,
trying to overdose and hoping for death.
We used to play so freely,
we thought it’d always be like that.
But now we run among graveyards,
the bones of the ones we left behind
clutter the passages.
And we’re still children playing games
with the worlds, but the stakes are higher,
we wonder if we’ll make it.
It’s just a roll of the dice on this graveyard
playground.

— The End —