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195 · Jan 2017
shitty emo poem #56927461
david mitchell Jan 2017
I seem to be overrun with myself.
My thoughts bubble over,
As boiling water from of a ***.
Feelings and phrases bounce about,
Between the walls of my head.
I cannot help but seek an escape,
From lowly emotions,
That make my heart feel dead.
194 · Jan 2017
Trying to Figure It Out
david mitchell Jan 2017
I messed up.
I wasted days away, never letting you be.
I never did this, or that, I was never that, or this.
I keep trying to figure it out.
I keep making excuses, I don't know what happened.
I'm trying to figure it out.
Too much distance, never enough for you.
I keep regretting, but nevertheless it was nothing to you.
Never too real, never too serious.
You never truly answered, never not being mysterious.
I write poems to cope, I draw pictures to remember.
From you I lost all my hope, never bitter.
I was never bitter, always despairing.
I was never this, or that. Why, however, is what I wonder.
I'm trying to figure it out.
I hate this poem and it is no longer applicable to me
186 · Jan 2017
Lost in Mind
david mitchell Jan 2017
Wandering,
Into the silky sadness.
Traveling,
Into the murky madness.

Bustling,
To the place I waited.
Clinging,
To the same words you hated.
185 · Jan 2017
Reminisce
david mitchell Jan 2017
I wonder,
What it's like,
To fly.

I tried too hard,
You were often,
Too shy.

And then,
When we met,
I got by.

Even now,
When we part,
I partly die.

I now regret,
The final time,
We said goodbye.
i don't regret it anymore
177 · Jan 2017
Schlimazl
david mitchell Jan 2017
Through this looking glass, opting out,
From this windowed hole, I hope this makes you less sad.
We'll both grow older, as many tend to do,
And move separate ways with thoughts never leaving,
Forever bitter, never regretting, never bitter, never.
dry spring of luck strikes again
168 · Feb 2020
inamorata
david mitchell Feb 2020
in a heady state, steady gazing.
exuding grace, with an awkward gait.
animating in me, a struck state,
coquetting, a wonderfully befuddling face.
162 · Jun 2020
stint
david mitchell Jun 2020
flaunting verbiage,
with a monkish tint,
hungry and spent.
a mild breath scent, emanating herb and taciturnity.
trundling forthward, draped in a certain verdancy,
certainly burdened with this flirtatiously unhinged uncertainty.
no longer careening, bundling kindling,
suffering kinship, indexing my woolgathering,
to begin the inner mending, expenditure now dwindling.
ontologically building, a great garden in sentience, ascending,
extentless, heaven, now, then, ever present.

— The End —