I wanna write about you. And I do. You drip off the end of my pen, Off the blinking line of my cursor, And fill up white space With the nebulousness of what you are to me; Your cumulonimbus formlessness. Enter. Pause. A moment of consideration. I am constantly unsure of what this all means. I love you. You’re bad for me. I might be bad for you in return. I want you. I don’t want anything and I burn for you, I write for you, I pine when I am a creature of pragmatism and action. You don’t want me the same in return, if you do at all. The absence of you is terrifying. The absence of you was a relief. With you I am elated. With you I feel as though you slowly pull my heart apart, As though you forcefeed me hope, For I am unable to do anything else but wish for— Change —when we are together, Though I know it is impossible, Unlikely enough to deserve the word. I can see the planes of your skin, feel Them beneath my fingers I can trace their lines with my mind’s Tongue. Wishing is pointless with you. I know this and still cry for the moon.
I just want to grow up and be like you I just want to grow up... I just want to... I just want ... I just... don't know what I want to be anymore Maybe I should of grown up to be just like me ...and be free
sometimes I find it hard to talk to you so I make lists in my sleep, of something I could say. but still I come up empty. what is it about you? I can’t live with you or without you. every single day, I sit in my anxiety. trying to find a way to say anything. won’t you remember that I’m your baby? and if you give a ****, won’t you not leave me? you’re the one I’ll always choose, please be mine and don’t waste my time. love me for who I’m meant to be, so won’t you please give me something? because sometimes it’s hard for me to talk to you.
Why do I write? Why expect anyone to read? Perhaps I want to help, but am I the right choice? / Am I right to have confidence? Should I lack it instead? Am I a Frost, a Poe, or someone forever unknown? / Will this ever be discovered? Will my private thoughts become public? If they are private, WHY am I still writing? Do I want people to know? / Help me.
How do I stop? By stopping? That’s nonsense. What if you didn’t want me back? What if I left and never saw you again? That’s the definition of stopping? **** that. You should stop. Stop hurting me. Can’t you just be mine? For a little while. I swear, not long. I love you, In selfishness and desperation. But still. Please.
There are two kinds of people in this world, the kind that get everything they’ve ever wanted and the kind that work hard and live in the dark I’m feeling loneliest at most Yep this definitely is depressing, watching cars go by and by And yet there you are stuck in the same situation as always Eves dropping, joining into conversations you’re not welcome to Sipping on a martini, oh no you shouldn’t though, you gotta drive Home To where you feel the most emptiest inside