He's moved on. He doesn't mean that. Hell I've moved on. He is your sun and stars It wasn't working. He makes you happy. We were fighting Think of all the good memories. yelling such hateful things- The way you felt curled up-in his arms- things we didn't mean. safe from the hatred of the world. He's too immature. You two can fix this. The love is gone*
(Can't fix what isn't broken) Can't change the *past Yet the battle rages on.
I've dreamt of you every night this week. read bold and italics - two poems
I think I hate my poetry, there's a simple reason why, you see, most of my words, I know are wrong, feelings extinguished that live on in song, of girls I've forgotten, and girls who don't care so there's no point to poetry...is there?