I'm addicted to having my heart broken

Sometime while he's groping my chest
He rips my heart out of it

I live for being lied to

Keeping my eyes covered staying blind
As to only rely on his words

I'm crazy about being a game piece

To be handled and moved wherever he pleases
For toys are meant to be played with

Mostly though
I'm addicted to having my heart broken

tight silk ******* with the lilac bra to match,
cream coloured knee high socks.
a collection of classic rock on vinyl and a compliments jar covered in news articles.

too many celebrity perfumes, but a versace collection that makes her think of the beach;
peach smelling deoderant.

chapter books on the floor accompanied by hair ribbons of baby blue and cotton candy pink,
****** by Vladimir Nabokov laying near the juvinile pale legs of beautiful sixteen,
as she paints each toe nail red, pink, white.

almost naked body, remember her tight, fresh lace set
hair perfectly auburn, lips perfectly light coral
mouth slightly open
Led Zepplin playing.
hairspray and rose powder,
unlit vanilla candles and twilight scented creams
she smells faintly of Modern by Banana Repulic and her daddy's cigarettes.

silently waving, a flag of patriotism
the beautiful, elegant sixteen.

-part 1

conceptcollection

I wanted to write a poem about flowers, so that's what I did.
It was short, expressed how I feel, and cut like glass.
I showed my father "Flowers" and he thought it was mediocre.
And I said, "No, "Mediocre" is the poem where I talk about dying,
and I'm trying to stay alive, so I wrote about flowers."

Flowers strangling soil plots with their roots, with their existence.
And to hurt something you love with your existence is a terrible feeling.

Long Sleeves.
Always long sleeves.
Even the summer.


Who here gets it?

Read my poems,
though read them right.
You can't just read them like
you are reading a book,
And think "this is not that good".
What is this?
These are words from my heart,
Don't underestimate.
The power contained in each word,
Sings a tune,
Read it like that,
Like a song,
that's the way it deserves to be read.
You then might feel what I feel
and appreciate each word
And let them touch your heart,
and truly understand what's being said.
Each word a journey of my hearts content,
Or its losses,
Some possibly written with tears dripping,
On the keyboard,
true emotions,
Deserve respect.

Everyone has a talent.
Whether it be practical or not,
Pleasing or not.
Everyone has a talent.
And sometimes that talent is just
Not good.
A talent for being impeccably rude,
A talent for ******* up relationships,
A talent for making people hate you,
A talent for spitting out gibberish when someone asks, "Why are you sad?"
Everyone has a talent.
But when people look inside themselves,
And see the talents they never wanted,
They fake another.
They learn to carry a note,
Play an instrument,
Draw a picture,
Write a poem.
But inside they know,
We're not good.