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Paige Feb 2015
I leave work and come home
to his house.
"He's upstairs."
They tell me.
thanks.
I go up the small stairway,
and open the door to his room.
He turns and says,
"Hey baby. C'mere."
I smile and take off all of my work
clothes, putting on the ones I brought
for today,
and get under the sheets next to him.
And even though I've been up
for eight hours already,
I am tired again,
so comfortable just to feel
him breathe.

"I love you."
*I love you too.
Paige Feb 2015
Of course,
I knew I'd always
like you.
You talked like his poetry,
although you'd never read
Bukowski.
The real shame about our
short lived time together,
is that I never told you your
voice sounded like poetry,
and your hands felt like poetry,
your mouth tasted like poetry,
and your eyes looked like poetry.
Beautiful.
Paige Feb 2015
I sit here in discomfort,
and read poetry out loud to
no one,
just because it feels like talking,
to someone.
And I am eating my dinner
of chicken nuggets made in
the convection oven.
Everything is a mess,
he got no help from the hospital,
which was to be expected.
Those doctors in their white coats,
and pink scrubs,
who wear even whiter shoes,
don't care about your pain,
even if you have the money
to waste eight hours of your life
in their useless rooms.
And I am sitting between a rock
and a hard place,
because making life decisions are
going to be the death of me.
Maybe it's because change has
always been the root of everything
that's made me unhappy:
although I know it's unavoidable.
Life changes every day,
even if it's just the weather,
or the length of your hair.
If only someone could teach me
to not be afraid of the one thing
I can't run from in life.
Paige Feb 2015
I've been pulling out my hair
faster than I can grow it.
Frustrating isn't even the word
I would use to describe this.
I fear that one day I could wake up
and it will be gone.
I wish I could wake up one day
and it will be fine.
But I know that this is my
mountain to climb,
and even as I sit here twirling
the hair that I never imagined
would be at this length;
around my finger,
I know that one day I'll be
on the other side of this
and wonder how it ever happened.
Paige Feb 2015
What matters most is how well you walk through the fire.*
     -Charles Bukowski <3
I'm reading You get so alone at times that it just makes sense, by that genius man up there. And I just read this line. It's beautiful
Paige Feb 2015
How fascinatingly scary
the troubled mind can be.
She fell in love with one,
so quickly, she thought she
must be crazy.
He was everything she never
thought she wanted.
He was flighty, dangerous,
wreck less, and highly unpredictable.

Every day was a new adventure,
and that was what kept bringing
her back to his bed at two o' clock
in the morning,
wearing his t-shirt and her underwear.

She never got to know how
much he loved her,
or if he even did.

Turns out, she was flighty too
and she ran away,
and locked herself inside with
a bottle of wine,
peeking out the window
looking for his reflection.
After she drank her nights away
with someone else
for more than a couple of weeks,
he was gone.

And she was left to go on
with her days, as though he had
never been a part of them.
And the sad truth is,
now she is the one with the
troubled mind.
Paige Feb 2015
I'm having what I call,
one of my insomniac nights.
I have no desire to sleep,
and I'm restless and unsatisfied.
But I've had a bad "pull day."
I've lost a lot of hair,
and my anxiety is soaring.
So I'm sitting in the dark,
wishing for a joint or
a beer.
Something to make me feel
any other way,
than this way.
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