You know, I would like to call this a poem
But really all it feels like is bleeding.
Like the flood that pumped through me is,
Wasted.
And trust me,
That hurts.
When I think of all,
I can't help but cringe.
Because somewhere in the between I lost the pieces of my puzzle,
That I was really looking for.
And that the love that I etched so carefully
Into the lines of your face
Ticked backwards, like a forgotten clock,
At his mention.
For you, I connected constellations in your freckles,
As though there was some kind of system of finding my
Way in this labyrinth that I know so well.
I found oceans of depth in those eyes,
That promised me salvation in happiness
That promised love in loss.
Although I have learned,
That when you explore too deep
It is easy to become lost.
The bleeding isn't a pattern,
There is no rhyme to this reason,
Only treason and tragedy.
So excuse the torrent,
Because I've already drowned in the flood.
Remember when flowers grew in the garden?
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 9:21 PM UTC
You know, I would like to call this a poem
But really all it feels like is bleeding.
Like the flood that pumped through me is,
Wasted.
And trust me,
That hurts.
When I think of all,
I can't help but cringe.
Because somewhere in the between I lost the pieces of my puzzle,
That I was really looking for.
And that the love that I etched so carefully
Into the lines of your face
Ticked backwards, like a forgotten clock,
At his mention.
For you, I connected constellations in your freckles,
As though there was some kind of system of finding my
Way in this labyrinth that I know so well.
I found oceans of depth in those eyes,
That promised me salvation in happiness
That promised love in loss.
Although I have learned,
That when you explore too deep
It is easy to become lost.
The bleeding isn't a pattern,
There is no rhyme to this reason,
Only treason and tragedy.
So excuse the torrent,
Because I've already drowned in the flood.
Remember when flowers grew in the garden?
