poetry fuckboys exist solely in the notes folder on my laptop
and are only enigmatic because i make them so;
dressed in beautiful metaphors, skipping
to the measured cadences in my voice,
they are a lot more colourful
really, though, my poetry fuckboys
are nothing like the real ones who touch you because they’re bored
and leave grey marks on your skin
and probably i only write them the way i do
because it makes my ugly skin seem ethereal, etched with history
rather than scratched by years of carelessness
poetry lovers aren’t really real either,
at least for me;
more than anything, they are characters
that i fall in love with
because they are made of love songs i listen to
and the illusion that i am capable of love;
fiction based on lovers whose smiles, really,
fall flat and move nothing in my heart
there is nothing real, or subconscious
about the way my fingers ache
for no one in particular,
and attach themselves to those closest to me
boys who sometimes smile at me,
girls that seem to exist only to laugh
full belly laughs
and there are elements in my poems that are perhaps true
and visible if you knew who i wrote about
but this is not even remotely real,
living between pages of poetry
taking comfort in their warmth
and no matter how dressed up poetry is
i am not talented enough to pass a fake
as anything remotely genuine;
even poetry fuckboys and poetry lovers,
to whom i desperately show my poetry to prove i’m real,
realise i get stale pretty fast,
and eventually stop reading my poems.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 6:28 AM UTC
poetry fuckboys exist solely in the notes folder on my laptop
and are only enigmatic because i make them so;
dressed in beautiful metaphors, skipping
to the measured cadences in my voice,
they are a lot more colourful
really, though, my poetry fuckboys
are nothing like the real ones who touch you because they’re bored
and leave grey marks on your skin
and probably i only write them the way i do
because it makes my ugly skin seem ethereal, etched with history
rather than scratched by years of carelessness
poetry lovers aren’t really real either,
at least for me;
more than anything, they are characters
that i fall in love with
because they are made of love songs i listen to
and the illusion that i am capable of love;
fiction based on lovers whose smiles, really,
fall flat and move nothing in my heart
there is nothing real, or subconscious
about the way my fingers ache
for no one in particular,
and attach themselves to those closest to me
boys who sometimes smile at me,
girls that seem to exist only to laugh
full belly laughs
and there are elements in my poems that are perhaps true
and visible if you knew who i wrote about
but this is not even remotely real,
living between pages of poetry
taking comfort in their warmth
and no matter how dressed up poetry is
i am not talented enough to pass a fake
as anything remotely genuine;
even poetry fuckboys and poetry lovers,
to whom i desperately show my poetry to prove i’m real,
realise i get stale pretty fast,
and eventually stop reading my poems.