I know nothing of keeping myself in line. Of what it's like to remain still, sitting on my hands for days turned to weeks folded into months packed into years. I know nothing of this reserved pain that's quietly pacing my spine. I know nothing as to if I've done what was best. Or if I've just hurt us both. Like I usually do.
this current lack of knowledge
make art everywhere
undress the lucky ones just to find out what makes them tick.
know a boy for 4 days, decide you like his personality, kiss him behind your best friends shed
stop acting like there's something more to the hurried way he lights his cigarettes.
It was never supposed to happen like this.
but, i fell in love with the way you broke your promises
I spent weeks breathing air only to realize it was only the way you grabbed my hips that mattered.
stuck in this endless loop of trying to teach the sun to forgive and the moon to forget
i've been lost in moments of tilted sunlight and dancing fingertips.
Now I'm thinking maybe I never loved you more than this.
yes, I drank the darkness
tell dad i'm off to get drunk with the creator.
I'm only a rough draft with tentative revisions lying on your bedside table. This is what happens to me at night.
yes, I drank the darkness.
This is how I stay up trying to capture the memory of light before it was ****** into your coffee cup eyes. Trying to understand how I continuously fit so perfectly into your palms after I've told myself for months that I'd outgrown your games. And when we fell in the mud I screamed I would not get cleaned up at your place but, took your hand anyway. Cuz' it was always a ***** little love we had anyways. But, I'll tell you what, it ***** realizing your life is full of a bunch of romantic metaphors that don't mean jack ****. And that rain falls through roofs every once in a while in a healthy home but, I've just been saying my palms were enough defense against this storm. Is it okay to ask for help now? Lightning, the old frenemy, has split me right open and no this is not an excuse to dig. I just need a warm body to carry me home tonight.
I don't want your pity I want art.
you're not the man of my dreams but you're this boy that'll do.
ramblings really, feel free to dissect and give feedback
WRITERS NEED HELP WHEN// they try to write songs about happy things cuz' Lord knows, we're not cut out for that
WRITERS NEED HELP WHEN// coffee or tea no longer suffices and they instead pick up a lover to help sort out their poetic devices.
WRITERS NEED HELP WHEN// pain stops being a reminder of life and instead takes over as prime muse and limelight entertainment.
WRITERS NEED HELP WHEN// they cry and the only thing you can discern from the wreckage are the simple words, "I need to write more."
just yr neighborhood public service announcement
I don't see the purpose of apologies for mutual mistakes.
We both ****** up. Same time. Same place. It's okay if we just never bring it up again.