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 Jun 2014 naivemoon
Shayna
eh
 Jun 2014 naivemoon
Shayna
eh
This thing, so called "love," brings out the best and the worst of us.
Blindly obsessing over something we know so little of,
we die desperately trying to find it.
But that's where were at fault; it is not something you can find.
It is something you have to patiently be blessed with.
But who are we kidding, love will make you do unspeakable things,
and no one is that patient.
For me, love has always been like sleepwalking. I never remember how I get there but there are always footprints behind me in the snow that appear to be the same size as my own. Somehow I ended up there again, with my face turned upward and the wind kissing it. Whoever compared love to warmth was lying. It is cold. It is the inch between solid ground and frozen lake that you can't see. It is the fog that clings to the tops of trees and softly whispers your name. It is the frost on your window that reminds you how easily things can break. The worst part of falling in love is falling out of love. The worst part of sleepwalking is waking up.
You woke up.
I like to talk
you know that
Words tend to fall from my mouth like a poem
Speaking is a soulful release
but with you it's not like that
Talking to you is glorious
but listening to you
is magical
Hearing you speak
is hypnotizing
Every word that you say
carries like a note on a bass guitar
Your smile causes sparks on the wood floors of my heart
warming it with a fire
It hurts
to know something so beautiful
is breathing
You hiccup life in to people
giving people color after they have turned grey
But I would love to turn grey with you
Once I was told my body doesn't work like it's suppose to
I tend to inhale what harms me
and exhale what I need
although
I think you taught me to breathe again.
I have too much time to think about you.
"Does it get easier?"

Seeing a text from you
never gets easier
You're clothes still have the
agonizing
smell of you
The spot on the beach
where you told me
you loved me
still stings
Your side of the bed
burns me
I still have to drive
around the
wrong
side of town
so I can be sure
not to
see your house
Every once and awhile
I swear
I can feel your arms around me
so yeah
after time
the feelings
don't shock you so much
but no
it never gets easier
you just get use to it

"Yeah, it does."
I don't know where this came from.
Anytime I make progress
I just a quickly fall back to the place I was before.
Someone once told me,
if you were deciding on if you should
keep someone in your life
or not,
weigh the decisions.
Do they make your life better or worse?
Deciding you made my life worse,
I would just kick you out of it.
Until I realized it was me,
me who was making my life worse.
One can't kick themselves out of their own life,
but they sure as hell can try.
Maybe if they were to
cut deep enough
cry hard enough
scream loud enough
their body will abandon them
taking advice on leaving things
when they make your life
worse.
This isn't a poem... this is a relapse.
**** me with my own weapon and call it suicide.
There was a boy I saw in the halls,
he was beautiful.
There was a boy I saw smile,
and I tried to keep from hiccuping my butterflies.
There was a boy who sat next to me in class,
our hands touched.
There was a boy who asked me out today,
the first time.
There was a boy whom I kissed,
like I had never kissed anyone else.
There was a boy who I gave everything to,
trust should be earned, not guaranteed.
There was a boy who shattered my heart,
now the pieces remain swept under the rug.  
There was a boy I thought I loved,
but I had no idea who he was.
There was a boy, and I never saw him again,
at least not the same way.
Some lessons need to be learned the hard way.
 Sep 2013 naivemoon
pandemonium
It’s past 2 in the morning and the only thing holding you two together is the group chat a classmate administrate because both are you (and others, of course) are generally in the same group for this semester but you are split in classes but you have two that are the same together. An assignment is due to be emailed that night and he just got back from god knows where and you’re a tad curious (maybe more) because during old times, he would tell you the things he do simply because you were the best company and the both of you complement each other. He said that he was going to pull off an all-nighter and you can’t help your fingers from typing down a witty response.

The nostalgia taking over you as you shot bullets of reply to him because he was doing the same. Soon enough it seemed as though you two were the only ones alive in the group along with a few other irrelevant comments to your bickering. His last message was an icon of a high five and you purposely left him hanging and close the application in your phone. With a soft chuckle, you shook your head and continued reading the poetry book you recently bought.

He knows you like the back of his hand, and it just hit past well about 4 in the morning and you’re still awake. What do you know it? A message from him- asking why you left his last message on the group chat hanging. That personal conversation went on as if you were in the past again; as if he wasn’t dating your ex-best friend, as if you weren’t hurt being left because it was that play where the two of you were the main characters with an unattached past. Your story is the type of love where you’re best friends and you know you get a bit giddy when it’s way beyond your bedtime. You’ve been involved with writing poems after you were left to be on your own and this idea was blown to you.

You send him a poem of which you wrote but you give him under a pseudonym so he wouldn’t know it’s by you. He said that it was deep and probably something he doesn’t think he can ever reach in an emotional level of expressing. It hit you. He was the perfect critic for the other poems you wrote. So you gave him a few more and it happened. He asked you if you’ve written any. Could this be the chance for you to finally prove to the only boy you’ve been stupidly pining on that you’re doing sort of well and that you just need him to subconsciously be the muse of your work?

You make a deal. 5 poems and he guess which is yours. He whines that 5 is too much as you’ve already given him others before. You really wanted him to read what else you still have so you reduced it to 3 and he grudgingly accepted (like the little whiny boy you have grown to love him to be). You gave him one about your ex-boyfriend, another about a boy you were infatuated with and lastly, one about him. And you waited. You waited for what it seemed like hours when it was just a petty 10 minutes. He narrowed it down to the one of him and the other boy. You guessed he would have let go of the one about your ex-boyfriend because he was there when he hurt you.

The paranoia seeps into your soul wondering if his could feel the one you wrote about/for him. Finally, he chose the one you wrote for the other boy because he rather sort of knows about that short amount of time where you really thought you really could like him. You hadn’t realised that you were holding your breath the whole time he was deliberating which to choose. A voice spoke in your mind telling that you should be grateful that he chose the one you wrote for the other boy as if he had chosen the one you wrote for him, what excuse behind that story are you going to make up?

And with that, the conversation of your writing opened up to a whole new request. He asked what else have you written about and you said just about your past and your broken family and such. He knows how bad the situation with your family is so he asked if you had written about the new spectacles you started wearing at the beginning of the semester because your vision gradually went from 20/20 to blurred lines during your current time in college. You perked, what to write about these glasses, you asked. He joked saying anything, but it has to include his name.

You were intrigued with the idea and agreed. He retracted saying that he was just joking as how do you put a name in a poem anyway. You just told him you’ll think about it but after saying that, you grabbed your pen and paper and began writing. He wanted it to be about your glasses and inclusive of his name, then you’ll give him just that. Your conversation lasted until dawn and believe it or not, you fell asleep first and missed your morning class at 8. When you woke up, a message from him (sounding as if he’s snickering at you) asking where you were.

Oh, the heavy weight of lying. You told him that you weren’t feeling well and that you’re going for the afternoon class at 2 instead (not with him).

After that class finished at 4 p.m., you sent him the poem you wrote for him the other night. He said that it was really good but he never questioned about him. You really wanted to prove that you could take up the challenge of writing a poem and having his name. You said, “You wanted a poem with your name, so here you go” and he was dumbfounded (as you quite expected). “But I don’t see my name anywhere”.

You told him that the beginning letter of every two lines spelt his name. His reaction was one you’re to treasure.

It was a bittersweet ending to your little fantasy story as that will be the last you’ll hear directly from him for months to come.
If every button on your blouse and jeans
Were the knobs of the doors
Of the Budget Inn
I would wrap my hand around them forcefully
And twist and turn until
I finally gained entry.
And if the unwashed comforters
That cover the soiled beds
Were your eager lips
I would jump into them
Until the stains left by other lovers
Made their mark on my skin
In the form of broken blood vessels
And residual lipstick.
And if the thin pages of the
Dust-covered bible tucked into the nightstand
Were every word you whispered
Before sinking your teeth into my skin
I would rip out every page
And paste them over the peeling wallpaper
So that I would be able to read them
Again and again and again
Until I finally believed
That more than failed religion
Could bring me to my knees.
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