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It took me quite some time
to realize
that there comes a point
when love
is no longer a good enough excuse
to endure
constant disappointment.
How do you stop tears from falling
When you know it's enough

How do you stop all the sobbing
When it explodes in a loud cough

How do you keep pretending
When your whole world comes to a stop

How am I still living
When my heart's in a knot
I've never liked the word Quiet
The word pulsates through my veins
Clawing at my neck
Flashes in my brain
Etched on my forehead
"You're so quiet."

I sit in the room full of people
Yet I am alone.
They're laughter bubbling up and overfilling the room
Like the cauldron they stir
Full of questions like,
"You don't talk much do you?"
And all I can do is shake my head shamefully.

I want to scream out loud
"Can you hear me now?" I cry out.
I am in this empty cave of oblivion
And all I hear are the taunting echoes
"You're so quiet."
"Speak up."
And all I can do is shake my head shamefully.
I make gremlin noises
  Whenever I slam too much whiskey.
your love is boring,
to put it nicely.
you
fit too well,
and you write like you're dying --
dripping words of broken hearts
and people made of cracked marble.
you don't believe in young love,
and yet every word out of your mouth
is about the boy that has your mind
(and heart)
wrapped around his finger.
you find beauty in the same self-destruction
within which he finds chaos.
you love him,
he loves you,
and you are finally all you never wanted to be.

but i guess that's all too common
when you pair a thunderstorm
with a tornado.

i guess that's all too common
when you go looking for love
in all the wrong places.

i guess that's all too common
when you fall in love
with a broken compass.


  

(a.m.)
whatever makes you happy, dear.
when a poet falls in love
it's not the normal, monotonous love that others experience
it's an explosion of overused metaphors
and sentences with no meaning

it's more about how they'd name stars after you
and kiss you in hurricanes that could destroy cities
it's not about how they came to fall in love
but about the first poem they wrote about you

you become the poem
you become the words scribbled down on paper
words only the poet truly understands

you become the cigarette they're dangerously addicted to
and how with every inhale and exhale a little bit of their
short lived life is given to you

tidal waves, earthquakes and full moons
start seeming miniscule to
summer showers, tiny vibrations and distant stars shining in the night

a poets love is surprising
All those half-dreamed things
whirl about as tiny freckles
in the speckles of your mind.

Now my dear, I think it's time
we closed our eyes
and counted to eternity.
Sadness without a reason is the worst because how do you solve a problem without a cause?
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