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I wasn't afraid of the angry skies with the whipping winds or floods of rain with the lighting or the thunder-striking and shaking

But, because everything is now a sea breeze, because everything is actually peaceful,
and thats
*terrifying
Its too good to be true, or to last
Nobody tells you
it is okay to call yourself beautiful
it is okay to smile at mirrors
and it is perfectly fine
to say your own eyes are pretty

it is wonderful to love your waist
and your legs
regardless of their size
and you are not conceited
if you use your fingers to list
everything you’re good at
rather than point
at all your own flaws

you can acknowledge you’re smart
and that you will go places
and you will be someone
greater than your mistakes

you can’t always expect
other people to believe in yourself
for you
I hate that I hate you
and I do ******* hate you
I hate how hate fills the void you left in me
and I do hate how you left
I hate who you are
because its not who you are
I hate how I have so much to say
but nothing to say to you
I hate that I love you
and I do ******* love you
You were perfect, why'd you change?
You are the bright beautiful light that mezmerizes me
pure, pristine, and pearly white
Every part of me is drawn to you. craves you
As I approach I forget all thoughts, forget all       fears

do I not remember what happened last time I got close?
do I not remember the ZAP? the PAIN!?!
*why do I keep coming back to the light?
I am helplessly drawn to her like a fly to a Zapper
Art
Is this what it's like to be a poet?
To taste every goodbye, to feel every moment?
To feel every detail, to see every flaw?
To kiss every star as the night starts to fall
To fall in love with the way the sunsets
To dream of the birds from dusk to dawn

Is this what it's like to be a painter?
To find it captivating the way the earth moves
Mesmerized by your very own torment
Never caring if anyone else approves
Ingenious, stamped across your forehead

Is this what it's like to be an artist?
To find beauty in the pain that transcends
From the demonized garden growing within?
To find something alluring in the way
*People walk away
I am a bucket filled with pain,
so will you pour me out and wash me clean.
I will never be the same man,
the one you want me to be.
I would say to run,
while you still have everything you need.
I have no imagination tonight,
but the thought of you never goes away.

You fly away so high,
as I lay here in the dust.
You cannot count the clock as it chimes,
but I swear time stopped.
You wish upon a star far far away,
while I chose the moon.
You went to bed already,
just knowing this I battle insomnia.

So here I am
**Lost and never found
A poem doesn't need to rhyme.
There needs to be inspiration and dedicated time to each line with sincere thought. Just like most of my poems, this one shows a lot of scary emotion and I do not know how I feel after writing at 3:15AM.
I miss being a ten year old. There's much more alacrity in debating the existence of Santa down by the park with your neighbors, than there is in debating the existence of God on the bathroom floor with the barrel of a gun.
 Feb 2015 Quip the Quandary
ryn
.
•    
re-
     kindle
    the spark
   that governed
    this game•the fire
  that once burnt as bri-
  ght as sun•all of this once
before, had a name•but now
is weak from the time it had be-
gun•there was a time when it wo-
uld consume•......it would defy the
odds....just so it could burn as one•
frantic and desperate for the magic
to resume•uncertainty has carved
itself into the heart that has come
undone•winds bearing ill no-
tions revealed as the enemy•
stitch up the gaps keep-
ing out the rogue
gust•
  pro
tect
  the
light that burns ever weakly•rejuve-
nate the spirit that harbours broken trust
•rekindle me now... i'm still in the game•
the heart                   save the     you will
isn't                              candle           need
ready                           and              to see
to make                         nur-              me    
sense                            ture             with
of the                             it                 this
dark•                             to                  in-  
                                    fla-              sig-  
                                   me•             nia
                                     ­                     as my
                                                         mark
                                                         •
.
I wonder what those lovers mean, who say
    They have giv’n their hearts away.
    Some good kind lover tell me how;
For mine is but a torment to me now.

  If so it be one place both hearts contain,
    For what do they complain?
    What courtesy can Love do more,
Than to join hearts that parted were before?

  Woe to her stubborn heart, if once mine come
    Into the self-same room;
    ’Twill tear and blow up all within,
Like a granado shot into a magazine.

  Then shall Love keep the ashes, and torn parts,
    Of both our broken hearts:
    Shall out of both one new one make,
From hers, th’ allay; from mine, the metal take.

  For of her heart he from the flames will find
    But little left behind:
    Mine only will remain entire;
No dross was there, to perish in the fire.
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