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Lloyd Jun 2013
A sixteen year old boy stands at a bus stop
Fighting back the contortions flooding his face
Swallowing down the clay in his throat
Desperately praying his knees stay strong

The bus pulls away
The boy watches as eighteen months of his life drives away from him
The girl he loved with the passion only known by a teenage boy
Is now gone

And as he stumbles in the opposite direction
Blinded by questions unanswered
The memories begin their assault
Beating him in every way he fears
I wrote this after a breakup a year ago that nearly destroyed me. Some slight tweaks have been made, but mostly I have kept it as it was at the time, as I want to try and preserve the emotion that this was written with, even if the wording seems wrong to me now.
Lloyd Jun 2013
Fifteen thousand men
Would not have the strength
That I see in you

Fifteen thousand men
Could not muster the courage
That you show everyday

Fifteen thousand men
Could not face the horrors
Of what lies in your dreams

Fifty thousand men
Could not write enough words
To do justice to my love for you
I wrote this for a friend struggling through some stuff, but I never got the courage to show it to her.
Lloyd Jun 2013
I get lost
Inside books
Inside movies
Inside games

I get lost
I do not wish do be found
I only wish
That you come with me
I really like the idea of this poem but for the life of me I can't ever seem to find the write words. So here it is anyway.
Lloyd Jun 2013
This number, the intangible phenomenon
That governs our lives
We are separated, categorised
Stereotyped by this number

But who's to say this number needs be comparable?
Isn't it full of subjectivity
And experiences, immeasurable data
That cannot be programmed into any system

To give us a true idea
First, tell us how many times you have been around the sun
Then tell us
Your age
Lloyd Jun 2013
How does a baby see its mother?
How does the boy see his dad?
How does the teenager see his idols?
How does the lover see his partner?
How does the man see his wife?
How does the elderly man remember his mother?
Lloyd Jun 2013
I want to see the first thing you see when you wake up
I want to hear the most complex questions in your mind
I want to know how you cope with sorrowful thoughts
I want to feel the softness of your open palms
I want to laugh at the things you can't help but laugh at
I want to know how you feel when you're favourite song is playing

I want to know what you are

— The End —