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Peter Simon Jun 2018
Maybe one day you and I will meet again
When we're slightly different people;
When your temper's a bit calmer,
When my thoughts aren't that crazy,
And all our dreams are finally fireflies in an arm's length

I wouldn't make a havoc within you then,
You wouldn't drown in my miseries.

Perhaps, right now, you must stay on the shore
Keep off from my cold, unruly waves
Run as fast as you can
Find a lighthouse
Save yourself from my surge of mayhem.

Then when I've finally managed to still my flow;
When my waves are tamed
And the chaos has calmed,
Maybe we can dance again under the twinkling of stars
© Peter Simon
Peter Simon Jun 2018
If once in your life you come across a beautiful flower,

Don't pick it up,

It'll die.

At first, the flower might dance in the wind;

Happy, with its face beaming brightly.

It might even say, "I'm so glad you plucked me from that boring bush."

You take the flower home,

Learn its name.

You do all sorts of things together;

And you ask yourself how on earth you even lived,

Without this flower to liven you up;

How did you even manage to push through,

Devoid of a companion to boost you up.

You suddenly feel so light like floating, you wonder why.

Then, the flower makes you realize,

How sometimes, emptiness can be heavy too.

And that you’ve bottled too much emptiness for so long now.

But you picked the flower.

One at a time, its petals would slowly fall

“When you pick a beautiful flower, it dies.”

Once you realize this,It's too late.

The flower might survive a couple more days,

If you place it in water;

But this won't stop the unavoidable.

It won’t save it;

It won't prevent it from succumbing to its painful death.

You’ll place it gently on the ground.

Tell it you’re sorry over and over again.

But, at this time, it’s had enough of your *******.

It has gotten tired of hearing how sorry you are all the time.

It’ll tell you how lazy you are,

Because all you do is stay inside your ******* cave.

It’ll tell you how you are never contented,

You say, the flower takes the stress away.

But here you are, still stressed with ******* life.

It’ll tell you you’re too weak,

Because you can’t lift yourself up with all this hate behind you;

You always fall on your knees and learned to walk with them instead.

The flower will tell you that all you did was hurt it.

From the moment you cut it from its stem,

To plucking the unwanted leaves it had.

It’ll tell you how drained it became when you snatched it,

That it can no longer smile like it used to,

And that you should carry the emptiness again;

This time, all by yourself.

The flower withers.

So if once in your life you come across a beautiful flower,

Don’t **** it.
© Peter Simon
Peter Simon May 2017
She has a weird habit of biting straws when drinking
until they're beautifully deformed;
she does the same thing even with the edge of disposable cups.

She always makes faces,
that's the first thing I've seen she's done
the first time I saw her.

She easily gets jealous
when I give "too much attention"
toward other things (or people).
I can't say I like it
but that's what she does that really diversifies her
from other people I know.

She almost never combs her hair.
She pouts her lips.
She speaks in a way that's almost chivvying.
She's always insecure.
You know what they say about butterflies?
They don't see how beautiful their wings are
so they live their whole lives believing they're not beautiful.

She has this bizarre wont to start telling random stories so suddenly,
I am not yet ready to hear them.

She's strange yet fetching.
She's odd, she's unique.
She's mysterious but innocuous.
She's peculiar.

I mean, how can you just
suddenly fall in love with something unfamiliar.

Like how comforting it feels
to watch the stars for the first time.

Then, you'd realise
that you don't even know
much about the stars.

And when you finally do learn
that they're distant,
huge and probably something
you won't be able to lay your hands onto,
you'd start to think twice.

Then you'd lay your back
on the grass (or the roof)
once more.

You'd look upon the glittery night sky.
And think it's fine;

you'd still watch the stars.
© Peter Simon
Peter Simon Oct 2016
You were a storm that ruined her.
She was a piece of land who delightedly endured you.
She asked for rain, you gave her hurricane.
And after you're done, you left her ravaged.
But that's fine, she was an artwork;
And she still is.
She gave herself to you, but she'll never give herself to anyone else.

Your paint was the only thing spilled to the canvass;
Her canvass.
And if we are to dust her heart for fingerprints,
I'd be certain we'd only find yours.
© Peter Simon
Peter Simon Jul 2016
Yesterday, she touched my lips with her fingers.

I wasn't so dizzy but I laid my head on her thighs.

I kissed her on her cheeks, I hugged her so tight.

We talked about our petty little secrets.

We stood on the rooftop taking all the night lights in.

She leaned her head on my shoulders.

Her face complemented the night sky.

I stared at her and I swear she's the most beautiful creature I've ever been so close to.

And I knew in those moments we were just playing some pretending games.

I thought I was contented. I thought.

Now, I know we should stop playing this game.

I'm losing all my cards.

I'm afraid that maybe after we're done playing inside our own storm, I'll be left alone engulfed in the sea of darkness. Scathed by the memories of her. And no matter how hard I try to keep swimming to the shore, I won't be able to find my way out.
© Peter Simon
Peter Simon Jun 2016
I have come to know,

These teardrop bottles I've collected
Lying along with my books on these dusty shelves,
Will sit there and constantly remind me
That they've come to drown away the sadness
I have always had in my eyes

And like the rain to the earth,
They've come to mend the cracks in my heart
That had gone dry
When you were still my sun
Who brightened my days;

And, without me even noticing,
Had slowly burned my heart;
With the fake warmth of your love
All the pain each bottle now holds,
Somehow saved me from turning to ashes

One bottle for every night I've cried,
A drop of tear for every beat my heart skipped;
Bottles which kept not only tears and pain,
But the sounds of my voice at night
Whenever I cried your name

These teardrop bottles still call your name...
© Daniel Grey
Peter Simon Nov 2015
I know this isn’t like the movies...
But I miss you, Baby. And this is not the kind of missing that I can get over with after a few days. This is the one kind that will not go away until I see you again.
My feet are aching to get to wherever you are. And my mind’s wanting to drag my body to whatever place you might be. But I know I can’t do that; at least not for now.
That’s why I am resorting to whatever possible things I can do so I can feel close to you. But what remains is reading our past messages, staring at your number in my phone book and wandering through your Facebook account. That, and getting lost while I gaze at my cell phone’s wallpaper that features your face.
I miss you so much, Baby. I wish you’d be mine because you know I will always be yours. I wish I could hug you whenever I want to; wish I could kiss you wherever I want to; wish I could talk to you all day and we wouldn’t run out of topics; wish we’d never hang up when we talk over the phone; wish you think I’ll be perfect for you even though I know in myself that I am not. Are these things even possible? I wish.
Baby, do you know that I miss you so much I won’t be able to explain how much? I wish you’d be mine. I hate it when they stare at you.
That’s why I never tell about you to people—even my own friends—I avoid them seeing my phone’s wallpaper. Because I know I’ll hate it when they start to ask about you. And I don’t want them to. I don’t want it because I know they’ll get a liking of you. What if they meet you, and they start talking to you saying I told you to them. And slowly you’d like them too; even better than me. Yes you might call me selfish, guarding you from them, but that's what I'd probably do.
Everybody likes you. You’re like a star that fell down from the sky, and everybody wants to see how immaculate you are. And it’s not a bad thing, I know, but I hate to think about that. Because I’m afraid that when these people start wanting to be closer to you, to know what stars are made of, I’d be left behind their trails, barred by their bodies between us and I won’t be able to reach you again, no matter how much I extend my arms to do that. All will be left are stardust, the littlest remnants of you I could still hold, glittering on my palms that nobody else wants. I’m afraid to lose what I don’t really have.
I wish I could hug you. And I wish you’d hug me too. So tight, until my spine collapses.
I wish I could kiss you. I know you’re the sweetest thing in the world.
I wish I could talk to you all day. And we'd share stories we never told anyone before.
I wish we’d never hang up on calls. Oh, believe me, I won't if you won't.
I wish you’d say “you’re perfect to me” one day.
I wish you’d be mine. One day. You and me. I wish.
Sorry, I know this is not that kind of poetry. Just something I wanna say. Well, whatever.
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