Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
It was more than a treat that we got to meet
And I can't always say this is true

But, of course, my poor aim takes up center-frame
As my thoughtlessness cleaves us anew
A fool's words I let slip from out of my lips
Shame be mine, if I've ever hurt you
It picks me up when I'm stuck feeling down
Conscripts my lips to smile
And relieves my mug of frown

Peps up the steps and moves my heart to pound
If I did not know better
I'd say my true love I've found
Cheers to you, bitter juice of a bean that's been blasted to grounds!
There
   are worries
           on my mind

                                 While I lie
                                           in my sheets

                                                     Mapping out
                                            my
                            eyelids

And
             dreaming
                                          of
                                                              sleep
To hide one's self; not an idea so mind-boggling.
Though detailed, the mask belies the heart's sand-boxing,
"Immune to all toxins projected in offense".
It's nonsense, but needed for all that it off-sets.

It's hard to find strength in a world that won't want it
And, yet, harder still to sincerely be honest.
Self-critical composure of mine, as promised,
Lives effortlessly on; though hidden, undaunted.

Please excuse me for choosing words plainly unclear;
I am both a survivor and victim of fear.
Don't let him hear you move
Don't let him hear you breathe
Because the moment he does
Will be the moment he seethes

Thunder without lightning
A hailstorm of teeth
What he thinks he's fighting
So easily beyond me

Don't let him know you live
Because that, he will not stand
The occupant above us
Is a truly troubled man
I really should write the perfect line
With perfect will and aim and time

And I really should do a lot of things
That I keep on hoping tomorrow'll bring

But it never seems to bring it
Just like I never seem to write it

I had meant to think of a happy ending
Or at least of a good one




Oh, bother
Sometimes things, like poems and people, they end up on paths that nobody intended for them.
It is okay to embrace a miss, I think.
I arch my shoulders to my cheeks
And press my weight upon my feet
Agress my chest unto my knees
This shape I take; anxiety
Next page