I feel like I'm in mourning, but don't want to come to terms
And our lack of communication only adds fuel to this fire that burns;
Our limited time together already puts our love in a fragile state
And with us not being able to talk daily is it going to be, do not resuscitate:
The old saying that we've all heard is a lie
Distance makes the heart grow apart, I cry;
I walk around prown and apathetic
A walking cliché, I hear the whispers he's so pathetic:
I send a love note with my latest confession
I wait for your reply, it's at your concession;
There's no new way for me to sing the blues
So like a jaded cop I think I've paid my dues:
I should wire my mouth shut to keep from shooting blanks
But what's to keep my hands in check from breaking ranks;
They grab the familiar pen and pad
What am I supposed to do, I jot down the ugly , good, and bad:
And in my absence will you turn to another, hoping they can do what I do
And when you think of me, say to yourself, he would have laid on tracks for you;
And I'll continue to write, saying to myself I hope this gets to her
But I genuinely hope I'm wrong and this poem becomes non-sequitur:
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 1:28 PM UTC
I feel like I'm in mourning, but don't want to come to terms
And our lack of communication only adds fuel to this fire that burns;
Our limited time together already puts our love in a fragile state
And with us not being able to talk daily is it going to be, do not resuscitate:
The old saying that we've all heard is a lie
Distance makes the heart grow apart, I cry;
I walk around prown and apathetic
A walking cliché, I hear the whispers he's so pathetic:
I send a love note with my latest confession
I wait for your reply, it's at your concession;
There's no new way for me to sing the blues
So like a jaded cop I think I've paid my dues:
I should wire my mouth shut to keep from shooting blanks
But what's to keep my hands in check from breaking ranks;
They grab the familiar pen and pad
What am I supposed to do, I jot down the ugly , good, and bad:
And in my absence will you turn to another, hoping they can do what I do
And when you think of me, say to yourself, he would have laid on tracks for you;
And I'll continue to write, saying to myself I hope this gets to her
But I genuinely hope I'm wrong and this poem becomes non-sequitur:
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