this is going to hurt
i know i'm gonna fall
lately, everything's been about you.
i'd see "closed" signs on antique shop windows
and eviction notices on apartment doors
and remember how it felt when you slammed the door on every possibility of us.
i'd see pens and papers and stop myself in the bookstore from throwing them on the ground and screaming "i used to be the one you write about". now i just find spare ones in my room that i can cry onto when no one's around. the ink seeps through my fingertips as i break the plastic case of every pen i lay my hands on and it's supposed to make me feel better but it doesn't. it just reminds me of the ink you injected in my veins and no matter how deep i cut i can't get it the **** out.
you grew something inside of me and i swear they're not flowers because they've been flourishing when i water them with *****.
i'd stare at streetlights and remember that one time you told me you'd kiss me under every single one of them but here i am brushing my teeth so hard it bleeds every night because the only time i taste your lips now is when i'm dreaming.
and now here i am trying in vain to paint the sunset with the color of your eyes. i didn't want to forget how they lit up when you said "i love you" but maybe it was just a reflection of how bright mine were when you finally said those three words.
well, to be fair, you only told me you loved me. i guess it's my fault i assumed it meant you'd never leave.
I’m so afraid to tell her I love her
so I only do it when I’m drunk,
or we’re drunk together
and still the words nervously tremble
they shake like orange leaves in autumn
and the wind doesn’t carry them
they just fall, quietly and unnoticed
becoming just a nuisance
to later be packed
into black plastic bags
and thrown to the curb.
So when you're sitting there
being all hipster and
sinking into your coffee
and melting into your folk/blues/alt music
And you just get it.
Heaven or hell or inbetween doesn't matter because I'm here and this day, this breeze, this song is heaven.
And when things turn to **** and you turn to *** or a beer or a joint or a poem an you inhale and you breathe and you realize that
even during the crap is heaven
even when you are going through hell it's still happiness
And if everything is connected and we are all inverse of each other than good and bad are same and love and hate is same and all is important and all is nothing
Sometimes we act a certain way to fit in and then we realize who we are
Sometimes you just need to be alone
Headphones in music blocking the world
Wrapping yourself in a blanket
Pablo Neruda on your lap
Sometimes it's so so so good to just breathe and marvel and song and write and read and be
Why is it that us poets, people of such passion are so often the ones clutching the bottle at the end of the night as we crawl into bed alone?
Why are we the ones searching for someone to **** because we never get any farther than that. Some call it home run but a hug is much more satisfying.
And we're the ones who cyber stalk and listen to music and pour out ours hearts and scream at the top of lungs and go on midnight runs.
And I have no one I can explain this to. No one I an call and cry poetry too and no one I am yell at and no one to love and no one to hate. And I thought it would work. I thought maybe I would get lucky and meet someone whose heart whispered the same things as mine.
Once upon a time in a far away land a princess met her prince. But tonight right here a young woman is simply begging for anything, anyone.