i was scared and drunk and looking for you
so what do you mean
"Do you even like me?"

in the street
the pavement is wet
sloping hill, up to your house
brown, dying leaves
surrounding our warm bodies
car pulls up
we don't even notice

we lay

on the stained carpet
in the basement
apart from anything else
lights are off
playlist, ours
heads pressed together
one in the morning
you tell me who you were
and who you are
i follow suit, blindly
i trust you
with everything

we lay

on your bed
there's no bed frame
just a mattress and some pillows
my head is spinning
i felt like i was dreaming
afraid i would wake
and you'd be gone
our music still on

we lay

He writes poetry
But no one knows

He writes poetry
He writes about love
And loss

He writes about smiles
And frowns

He writes about sorrow
And forgotten towns

He writes about how lost he gets
Caught up in his own mind

He writes poetry to
And about others

But no one knows

Know one knows the depth of his soul
Because they all choose to see the exterior
And that exterior screams

Preppy
And preppy
Don't have souls

Or so they thought
Until the day he was consumed
By his own poetry

He pulled me closer, in the dark
then left when the lights came on
It's almost as though
he is embarrassed
and I am what is wrong
He's not the first to hate the light
and he won't be the last
For every guy,
a weave of lies
just waiting to be cast

why is my poetry ****

for every girl
he is a mark
that cannot be swept away
for every girl
he takes a heart
and paints her blue skies grey