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fabiana Oct 2018
over the fact that my dress was probably to short
my smile too wide
my eyes on the verge of tears
my nose too perky
my lips too thin
my braces like headlights
my glasses all *****
my armpits sweaty
my face filled with too much hope
and my head filled with too many thoughts.
i wonder what he saw.
probably another plain girl walking down the hallway,
clutching her book,
looking down at her feet.
fabiana Oct 2018
i suppose i can wield my words.
i can use them to make someone fall in love
with themselves.
as i compare their laughter to a ****** of fairy bells
and the way their breath fogs up the air on a chilly winter morning.
i can use my words to make someone fall in love
with the world.
as i show them how beautiful trees are,
how blue can be seen in so many ways, by so many people.
but for some reason,
i can't use my words to make someone fall in love
with me.
i can't seem to mold them the way i want to,
to express my emotions in a way they want to hear.
i cannot explain to them how i get buffaloes and rhinoceroses
rumbling in my stomach,
every time they smile at me.  
i cannot explain why i wish i could fall through the cosmos
with them.
hand in hand,
figures tumbling,
up and down and sideways and wayside.
i wish i could show not tell how
in love i am with them.
i can wield my words
but i cannot use them to caress
the face of someone
i love.
Thank you so much to anyone who took the time to read another **** poem about love.
fabiana Sep 2018
Every night, six ten on the dot
came the weary woman, collecting fragments of thought.
She pulled her green dumpster,
always on time,
waiting for the dependable
same-old twelve chimes.
Only then would she leave,
take her uniform off,
then the next day again,
dancing with the clock.
But some days she'd pick up
litter from a genius's mind,
and astounded she'd be with
her new precious find.
She placed these in her lilac box,
saved for the best of the best,
then, preparing for the next shift.
she would take a much needed
caffeine is a drug
fabiana Sep 2018
all i want is to be heard;
not by you.
you do not care.
but instead i want the trees
to hear.
my quiet breathing
my song so dear.
i want my best friend to please
shut her mouth.
about sam's wretched life
that is going south.
i dont care about
stupid katie.
and the fact that she and tom
are dating.
i want the trees to listen please.
to the heartfelt story i tell with ease.
i want the river to tell me how,
the past, present, and future are now.
but if no one cares,
i guess i wont.
oh well.
i know that you dont.

— The End —