itty kitty in the garden
oh to be a feline in the grass
baking in the sun
not a care in the world
i want to be a cat
im sorry for the bad word
i truly believe it takes a hurt soul to write poetry
that when you’re in love
even the water in the shower feels different
it’s been a long while since i’ve been here :) i’m fifteen now. i’ve lost things and gained things since i’ve written for the public. i lost my best friend. but i’ve found myself. i have two best friends still. i have a dog. i have a real smile
i write my poetry knowing i will never get the fame
i write my poetry knowing it only ignites the flame
in my mind the one that feeds to my demons late at night
but the truth is that i converse with those who know i’ll never be in a book and my name will never be known
but hey maybe i can help you feel less alone
i never know what to name my title. i also never feel like my poems do anything. they don’t reach out and let others feel or confront. i feel my words are just here, existing merely to me. but nonetheless, maybe one day i could be known for more. someone remind me this before i’m dead.
if i write to help myself,
how come i don’t like it when i read it?
i invest my time into writing better,
yet my words only seem to get worse.
and when i read them out loud,
they leave a chalky taste in my mouth, instead of the release of pain i get when i write it.
i wish i had written different words instead of these right now.
i wish i made a difference in someone’s life.
i’m all alone, never seen.
these words don’t mean anything to anyone, but me.
i allow myself to be vulnerable but i wish someone would just admit they are tired of my whining.
and when he smiles
i swear i could fly