Suffering is why art is created.
Suffering and love.
Both, which I find pretty ******* awful.
I would never wish either of them on anyone
Love has caused me more misfortune and abuse,
than any substance I have ever consumed.
Love, is filled with many more chemicals,
Than the countless cigarettes I have smoked.
At Least, cigarettes provided me with a sense of comfort,
While any form of love I was given,
Would cause my hands to shake,
let my brain run wild,
And left my body to ache.
past lovers lips leave awful tastes in your mouth
which seem to stay,
even after years of them being away.
suffering and love go hand in hand,
they are partners in crime.
one cannot love without suffering,
one cannot suffer without love.
in a sense, it is strung to the common belief that,
opposites attract
love is suffering
suffering is love
that is not a metaphor,
but a fact.
maybe i am writing this,
because I have watched too many of Bukowski’s poetry readings,
or because your lips are still in my mind.
I gave you every inch of my being,
Just to see you smile,
because I loved you.
maybe, that’s why I am now alone,
Suffering.
because I loved you,
And like I said,
suffering is love.
love is suffering
and I loved you so much,
I thought that putting all of myself
into a glass bowl,
and trusting your sweaty palms,
to keep a firm grip on it,
was a good idea,
because I wanted to believe in you,
and my head wasn’t in the right place,
I was not okay,
I had thought maybe your hands
were different,
Maybe they would not cause
my body to shatter
And my soul to spill out,
Onto the floor,
Like blood onto concrete,
But that’s exactly what they did,
And your hands did not apologize,
as I fell onto the floor,
they did not try to piece me back together,
they did not try to gather up my contents
your hands just left me there,
fragments of myself left to linger
on your carpet.
and sometimes,
I wonder
if you can still hear
the segments of my body,
crack in between
your doc marten boots.