I guess you could call it poetic how by the age of 12 I had no recollection of what happiness tasted like on my tongue. Some would say it was tragically beautiful.
But it was not poetic, nor was it beautiful, but it was tragic. It was so very, very sad, and that sadness is only doubled now that people see sorrow as glorious. It is not glorious. It is not strength. It is a lump of iron in your chest and stomach and it eats you from the inside, out and you have no right to think that blood stained wrists are anything other than tragic. So very, very tragic.
I have nervous break downs at just the mere thought of you
oh how I ponder why that can be
You're complex, all the way down to your mix matched socks
The smell of you is like no other
it's not comfortable nor is it worthy to be romanticized
You smell like cigarettes and ******* hair dye
Your brown eyes are better than love-sappy blue eyes
which makes me want to write how a caramel set of eyes are better than clear oceans because it would be for all of the wrong reasons
Your letter doesn't do any justification to the anger in me
I can't romanticize you because suicide isn't love
it's not a trend
it's a deadly thing
but I ponder
if it's a deadly thing
why do I find myself still writing about you?
Poems are just as romanticize as suicide is but yet here's a thing about both
We romanticize our sadness
To share it with the world
Let others know we understand
Or maybe get a little pity
Because what’s wrong with
A little fake love every now
I want to hit it hard, not romanticize about the blood ya feel me?
As you read that first line,
when you cross over to the second,
your nose will start to bleed just before my fist connects with your face.
I often dream about it, being feared.
The only reason that you're on the ground is because I put you there.
Quite frankly I'm fearful of myself.
My throat still holds the ache of the alcohol going down.
I swear to you I'm doing better.
I can't swear in this house hold so I will talk so quickly creating run on sentences without punctuation or breath because I'm panicking over nothing in particular.
Add some shakes to your vocabulary and you've got it right.
My medication puts stray dogs under my finger nails, that's ok because dogs are happiness.
That's supposed to mean I'm happy.
I made myself write this, its horrifyingly scattered just like my head.
That's not right.
Something is terribly wrong so I must fix it.
That's what I do,
I'll just look at this as art.
Some persons trash is another ones treasure.
I'm too scared to write anymore.
This is garbage.
I used to romanticize chases:
the sweet gestures,
the undeniable want to get something –
the unconscious submission for love –
I used to romanticize being chased:
someone following my every breath
someone forcing himself for my love –
someone who wouldn’t give me up
someone proving that I am neither wrong
someone giving me the privilege of wanting
someone constant, someone
I never thought that consistency
will soon become undone,
that the only constant thing in one’s life
will soon go back to ashes,
that willingness and love –
will soon disappear
like he did
I used to romanticize the chase:
the everyday with gifts and kisses,
the unconditional pain it will deal you,
the reassurance that you will never have.
I used to romanticize the chase,
but I never thought that
I'd be the one who
Nostalgia is a beautiful phenomenon
It's when life seemingly happier,
more adventurous, and less chaotic
People frequently romanticize and misplaced it
As a neverland, wonderland, you name it
More often than not, they think it's all they have left
As I grow older, I can see those fragment of memories
Vividly, so crystal clear that it almost feels real
But baby, nostalgia is a psychological illusion
So, come to your senses now
Recall this as a mantra
Breathe in, breathe out
He's not a history—he's a tragedy
We don’t use diaries anymore -
those are meant for secrets,
and we have none.
We let them spill out of our bodies,
and pour onto blank white sheets.
We swear it’s the only way
we are going to heal.
We turn our pain into poetry.
Anything that hurts this much
has to mean
And even though we are desperate
for anyone to listen,
our language is in the letters
that we will never send.
We romanticize pain like it’s the
only lover we will ever know.
Love is our god and we are each our own devils.
Too fragile for this world,
ceremoniously destroying ourselves
before anyone else can do it for us.
Yet we still can’t understand why we’re so broken.
I get so lost some days
I feel like I am rubbernecking lightning
Just waiting for the flash
And life is a Nissan brake-checking your awe
People say you can tell how close the storm is
By counting seconds between lightning and thunder
If you can see it
It is always close enough
I don't mean to romanticize everything
But it's what I do
The clouds look like scabs
In front of some bolts
Before they mesh back into the smooth blackness
I wish I healed that fast
At the Zoo
Patriots and faux exhibit and binge on synonyms of liberty printed on beer and underwear
Advertising what should be unspoken and inspired to pervert and romanticize
Preludes to the parades and finale above us all
Weeks of saturated irony
Cuckoo bird irony and BBQ
As they reform Phoenix, rebirth of distractions and thievery
Predators in ally ways pursing America's diamonds and legs
Gunpowder of colors and cuckoos
Layers of streets in gunpowder
Towns built of gunpowder
Sky is gunpowder
We are born addicted to led and gunpowder
Gunpowder ****** in the air
Success, display and diversion and more gunpowder to ingest.
The Grand Finale
The Volta of the evening
The hammer of the judge
*** appeal of death and nature flexing it's muscles-
show us some skin!
Covering your ears
Ready to burrow back to mothers womb
Binged and free
Chinese celebration hijacked
Red, White and Blue
And a moment of silence
Orchestrated onomatopoeia in heaven
Chorus of arousal on Earth
Band marching war machines in hell
The showdown of 241 years!
This freedom we are all grateful to only talk about
Only free to battle shackling intoxication
Men and women tugging extra weighted offspring
Sulking for indoors and portable addiction
Chanting three letter obedience
God being counted by his blessings
Fear and Statism in every breathe for salvation from our stick swatted enemies
Checkpoints that serve and protect asking for a toll;
Arresting the too free
At the Zoo,
The cuckoos regaining reality.
The phoenix red eye and held under oath
To the next day where we are back
To hate each others freedom, again.
Written on the 4th of July.
I've found it,
My fatal flaw:
I'm a poet.
I romanticize and attempt to find beauty in the most hideous of situations,
Even when the beauty ceases to exist.
I fall in love with my own ideas and expectations,
To try to block out the reality.
So there it is,
My fatal flaw:
I love it,
*but it kills me
to romanticize the past
remember it as
when i keep discovering
more and more each day
and everything you
i thought was true,
— The End —