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You are trying so hard
To get in my bubble
Planning dates with someone so unstable

Don't you get it?
Don't you see?
You are only a friend
Only a friend to me.

You won't give up
You won't go away
Blocked on all my social medias
But still you find a way to contact me

Don't you get it?
Don't you see?
You will never, ever be with me.

Still there you are promising again.
That this will work out.
You are a "gentleman."

DON'T YOU GET IT?
DON'T YOU SEE?
You have been friend-zoned, baby.
Wish the person doing this to me would take a hint.
Rose Mar 21
Stopped responding
I let it go
Hoping that someday
You would come wandering

Nothing in my favour
Things moved on
Confiding in the future  
It was gone

Glimpses of you
Made me believe
That there still was a chance
I guess I was wrong

You made a statement
Yet defriending does not remove
I still exist
In both memory and you

Left to my own thoughts
What did I do wrong
Was it me
Or has someone else come along?
Can you allow yourself to be irritated and feel hurt, when you weren't even in a relationship
You, Me
don't jello
we bow cup

noah 'ello

Teks nomor
nomor
nomor

noah 'ello

You, Me
don't jello
we bow cup

noah 'ello
is to raise a wall
back to its preexistence
to halt a
read-between-the-lines
brand of resonance;
a wall to protect
those constructed surfaces
from even being scratched.
Now, you feel
              an
                  empty sting

when your access to a
digital counterpart,
a modern-day version
of a person's cognition,
is denied.
It's as if their posts are
the only way left
where you could
actually
hear the things
that couldn't be spoken of;
where you could
feel the
immeasurable heartbeats
that could never be
projected;
  and all of these
      illusions
          make you wish
              you talked more
                  in real life.
I went away, but it wasn't for play
Certainly, though, it didn't show,
the strenuousness--
head wrapped in gauze and cement at once.
And your bed is your grave
like a mummy entombed.
No sleep is ever enough
because it's too late.
But compared to the rest of the world,
it's your sun-infusing life pod.
As Earth's energy grows
stalks to the sky in nature, emerald green
and in the city, tin men and women wound
with a key
tight to within an inch of their lives
to build pillars of silver and glass,
equal parts plaintive and proud.
The atmosphere and ants proceed
as they would
while I cannot be worshipful, as I should,
to this planet we've been given.
My tributes were never tangible--
whispy as they're twisting to, I fear,
be ephemeral.
So why does a pen or keyboard taps
feel like a moral stand?
They say the Devil's playthings are idle hands
but in reality, my corpse hands
cannot volunteer to any definitive ends.
Though sin of sloth, I'll have to admit.
I hadn't written poetry in too long...
Lyn-Purcell Oct 2018
How is it that ideas are
waterfalls in my mind
but my hand is so still?
Feeling unwell AGAIN...
Sorry guys for disappointing you.
I so wanted to update my Masked Bard story
Lyn ***
Anya Sep 2018
I seemed to have blocked
An amazing poet
And she blocked me back
Before I could undo my mistake
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