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people getting traumas left n right,

good ones leaving the fight...

if love is worth it,

why is everyone in spite?
written on 04/29/2024
Birdie Dec 2024
He might be right,
When he says that loves gone now.
That it cannot be done right,
For doing it wrong now.
I hope that he’s wrong when
He speaks on my deep fear,
Says I’m used up and damaged
And will not be loved here.
I feel it inside now,
That sinking dread feeling
That sits in my stomach
And leaves my mind reeling.
I know it deep down now,
The soul crushing truth love,
That people don’t love like
They used to love love, love.
Left feeling a bit hopeless for my future in love after speaking to the man I’ve been in love with for 2 years. He’ll never love me back and it turns out that maybe nobody else ever will either.
Devin Johns Dec 2024
Poets beware!
Poets, take care
to always practice safe serenade,
or you'll be left with lemonade.
You’ll do right, every time,
if you recall this simple rhyme:

Target fresh and worthy arts
just at live and beating hearts.
Take it far, but not too fast,
and inspiration might just last.
Devin Johns Dec 2024
Spot red flags,
and tick the boxes.
Do the math,
then chase the foxes.
Justin W Dec 2024
You’re probably busy.
Every few minutes, like clockwork, I check my phone.
I need to.

Nope.
You haven’t messaged back yet. It’s already been an hour.
Insane.

You or me?
Probably just me. I had to put my phone on silent so I can gain control of it.
Maybe I’m busy too.

Schrodinger's text.
By the simple fact of me not knowing you've messaged, you're actually waiting on me to respond.
I won’t keep you waiting.

Open. Deflate. Evaluate.
Yeah, that one I sent was fine. But what if this one was too intense?
Too scary.

An hour and ten minutes.
I get it. I don’t really like me either right now. Look at how I must sound over text.
Clingy? Definitely.

It reads:
“Hope you had a good day. What did you get up to?”
Sorry.

It's a bit much.
It prys. Like I need to know what’s going on every moment of your life.
****.

Maybe I can correct.
I didn’t really mean to pry. I only want to talk to you. It’s totally okay if you don’t answer. I’m sorry for being so intrusive, just let me know if you think it was too much, or if that’s too much, it’s okay if you take a little bit to answer. You really don’t need to. I need you to. Because it eats me up inside that you’re not going to like me anymore after I asked such an awful question. I just need to know what you’re thinking. PLEASE! ****! WHAT DID I DO WRONG?
...Gotta delete that.

Rewrite it a couple times.
Delete it all again because I like to think I have some sliver of self-awareness. Somehow.
I wish I knew how I messed up.

Turn off silent mode.
If you don't message, I'll be fine. I could never talk to you again and I would be alright.
Forced apathy. Attempted strength.

And then, it is you.
You’re not mad at me, and your message was very thoughtful. Maybe you were happy to see my message.
This time.

That’s good.
I write a giddy little response. Excited for you to message back soon.
And you do.

But then you don’t.
Every few minutes, like clockwork, I check my phone again.
I need to.
Jamie Henderson Nov 2024
A single message flourished away,
a smooth brush across cold paned screen,
for, there we met on the sixth of May.

So many things are ephemeral;
dark chocolate beneath the sun, bubbling into sugary pools;.
Grainy white cubes, dissolving into porcelain cup.
Descending petals from bearded, autumn branch.
Paper in a book, lines on a page;
a melodious song, or grand theatric play.
But this was to last forever
for, there we met on the sixth of May.

Surrounded by domains of mellow duvets,
he’s a crepuscular ray through sombre clouds, and rainbow rains.
Love beats steady, slow and safe;
warming heart and thumping vein.
Benevolent burning, a fervent haze;
pawing at molten hills of silky skin.
Creamy haired head moulds into
grooved shoulder and beating chest;
made whole, a set pair.

Timeless, a tender dimension;
a rose bubble, a hallowed, undying day,
for, there we met on the sixth of May.

x.
Soulmates x.
Wyoming Mae Nov 2024
Ringlets spring between my fingers,
I try to smooth them as a sigh slips out,
Sarcasm hangs heavy on my lip, but—
something else drips from yours
I try to meet your gaze but mine often strays
I can’t let my eyes give me away
My body will say what I cannot put into words
A poem can be written under those soft sounds,
Something more tangible and desperate, yet—
It is still more delicate than I could ever consciously pen.
I was dumb!
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