If the only reason why
you break up with me
is because we are
apart.

Then our love wasn’t real at all.

Distance carries
no weight
and love is not for your
convenience.
It is a constant
decision.

We build a life apart
only to build the life
we want
together.

I do
miss you
your touch
and the
smell of your
skin.

I am
jealous of
all the people
who get to
be with you,
to see you,
and not from a screen.

But you
thought we were
temporary
when distance
was only days away.

Love
should’ve been
greater
but for you,
it wasn’t in
your favor.

i have to accept that i was just a place holder for you
someone you came to because no one else even scratched the bare minimum
loving you with all my heart was never enough because in the end i was never what you wanted

i am a convenience

there is no answer to why

disposable
even when i dont try

I knew it the moment I first started talking to him that he was only flirting with me because I was convenient, but **** at that moment I craved even the slightest attention, and I was willing to take whatever I could get. I wanted someone to make me feel special, even if it was just for a little while, even if it was by a boy who never deserved me to begin with. And it worked for a little while, until he left and moved on to the next convenient girl. But unfortunately for me, in the end he left me in worse shape than he found me. I began to retreat back into my little bubble of depression, only to find it was now bigger and lonelier than it ever was before. So I just kept talking to the few boys who came my way, desperately trying to find someone or something that could fill the void of emptiness... Maybe I'm just searching for a little  convenience too.

there’s something unsettling about convenience stores. the fluorescent lights resemble some planet far away from here. neon signs with a letter broken, now flashing “be r,” beckoning the broken, the damaged, the lost boys. the home of those who don’t fit in. they buy the greasy pizza, rubbery hot dogs, and chemically nacho cheese which imitate something edible but scream danger on the tongue. haunted by the souls of the the pimply teenagers working the register, lips stained blue from blue raspberry slushy, slaving through the evening for the nocturnal souls buying milk and bread in the wee hours of the night. hushed arguments on the phone about forgetting to buy toilet paper and why don’t you ever pay attention to me. the pungent smell of hair dye boxes, the stink of attempting to be someone you’re not. skeleton children with messy hair, ***** fingernails as well as thoughts, up to no good back for more cherry cough syrup and furniture polish. soon after 3 candy bars will be found missing from inventory. detergent bottle caps, once neon, now faded with gathering dust, residing next to a dented can of campbell’s chicken soup. an organized chaos. the land of misfit toys.

Dontcha just hate trying to finish a poem?
It's always like there could be just a hint of this, a dash of that;
too much seasoning, not enough time spent simmering;
did you use the right amount of ingredients;
was it tablespoons or teaspoons?

Dontcha wish you could just pluck one out of the freezer:
One wrapped up in a neat little package?
Leaving it on the stove-top to thaw a little,
before heating it up at your timely convenience?

I wish I knew when these **** things were done;
Wish I could stick em in a microwave, clock in the allotted time for a work like that to be well-cooked and consumable--
Wait around zoning out to the droning tone of the toasting note,
then awake from my spell by the sweet dinging of completion.

I'd take that steamy sucker out of that commodious kiln
in such great haste I can barely hold it in my hands!
"Boy oh boy does this one look tasty!"

I'd sit down with my necessary utensils and have a go at it, chewing thoughtfully and enjoying this wonderful piece I have prepared by myself for myself--and without all the hassle and wasted time
spent slaving over books and pages and pens and inspirations!

But ****;
Nobody likes poems cooked out of pre-made packages;
they're a little too rubbery, a little too mushy, a little too bland--
and worse off they were made by the assemblyman's hand! (or claw).

Nobody likes their poems coming out of pre-made packages;
They ain't nothing like the real thing.

Our conveniences
Are all shared
And inconvenices
A perfect privacy!