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JD Harold Dec 2017
She is everything to me.
The moon within you.
Yes. I am in that realm near love but not fully engulfed.
JD Harold Dec 2017
Oh self, gardener of mistakes.
The trees I planted grew sideways,  giving shade only when I need it, never when I want.
Oh her, gardener of nervous hearts.
The tiny little buh-bump, buh-bumps of the night haunt my mind.
But they leave me thinking she's got countless petals and seeds trespassing in me.
And I am still learning if I should embrace them in the soil,
Or if I should dig them up before I get too attached.
I'm trying to figure out whether or not I'm in love.
JD Harold Dec 2017
Stay awake with me late at night.
When my sadness and anxiety creating frights.
When your ghosts haunt you so badly that you want to shut down.
But we both desire no crowns.
Nor do we desire riches.
We want comfortable times.
Lovely things reinforcing our prime.
We want to feel okay.
We want to feel fine.
At the end of the day.
I am neither yours nor are you mine.
But I'll love you.
And you'll comfort me.
Is this a love poem?
JD Harold Dec 2017
Up in his attic, the astronomer observed both the heavens and the denizens. The celestial bodies overseeing both the miserable and the elated, without discrimination, nor with benevolence.

And the astronomer found that every night, he was not the only one observing the deep blue sea in the sky, admiring the bright jellyfish soaring slowly through the endless expanse. From hopeful young children to the sad war veteran, many people stared up at the night sky. The difference between him and them was that he studied the sky for a living, they studied it for life.

One night, the astronomer heard little whisps of a boy's hope. In that tiny yet significantly booming voice he asked, he pleaded, "Please cure my sadness". The astronomer looked down and in his yard was the malnourished looking boy. He couldn't have been no older than twelve but even so, he was wishing for happiness. They both admired the same star, away from the constellations, the smallest yet brightest. The most enduring, yet the least impressive. The perfect definition for a lucky star.

• \/\/\/ • \/\/\/ • \/\/\/ • \/\/\/

Down inside the dumpster, the boy hid. It smelled like what he thought the dead smelled like after several days of rotting without enough love. It was appropriate. The people who sent him out both declared him dead and unlovable.

Yet he was alive, in the garbage. Yet he felt warm, in that forgotten place. He felt grateful, yet hungry.

flash bump crash

The boy would peek out from his smelly castle, and found fresh food and clean clothes. There was naught but a note, *"From your lucky star"
I'm really sad. I wanted to write a vent poem. But this came out.
JD Harold Nov 2017
It was up there, on the roof of his tall, hollow building where he found his first love picking her favorite flowers out of the old garden. It was up there, where the wind blows, and where intertwined flowers kiss, that he felt like he was truly alone.

It was down there, in his basement, where the man felt safe enough to cry. It was down there, in his personal hell, where he had a prepared noose, for the next girl to ****** him with.

"Love me" he choked out. "Someone please love me. I swear I'll fix everything if someone loved me." he pleaded. But alas, the man's ways of self destruction attracted only the company of his inner thoughts, and his headaches that followed.
Short uninspired story.
JD Harold Nov 2017
Sometimes I feel like I'm not really here.
Whether it be the lack of self assurance or the constant fear.
I feel like I don't really matter.
To help myself not shatter.
I remember.
Those lovely, lonely nights in December.
I reminisce.
In how I used to enjoy this.
In how I used to be.
I used to be me.
I used to be me loving you.
And at some point that became so untrue.

These memories are not perfect.
Yet they are mine.
Things of the past made me feel like ****,
I was never fine.
But these memories belong to me.
They make me who I am.
I just need to remember who I am.
I really love the girl next to me.
JD Harold Nov 2017
I'm going to miss this place,
with it's countless amount of forgettable faces.
I'm going to miss this home,
although for three years, I felt alone.
I'm going to miss this shelter,
but sometimes it made me feel like a cave dweller.
The time went by so fast and yet so slow.
I've got a lot of people to thank or hate so,
thanks to every person that made me feel like I meant something.
And to every person who made me feel like I meant nothing,
I hate you.

Childishly so.

I graduated.
I haven't grown up.
I wrote this a long time ago.
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