I have over a hundred
that fill me with an odd sort of dread
What if people were to read
my barely cohesive thoughts?
What an absolute nightmare that would be.
What on earth is the rhyme scheme?
Is there even one at all?
I gotta hand it to me
that was an odd sort of free verse poetry.
There are some that are just titled
and no words written beneath them.
What was I thinking with that topic?
Save it as a draft
and never go back
That's my motto.
Save it as a draft
and never go back.
Listen, I'm not even sure what I'm writing anymore.
You will know them when you see them
Holding stars, holding planets
In between their webbedd wisdom
Hear them snap inside a thunderclap
And grasp the cup turned skywards
Hold the palm to match the desert
Each crevasse a meadow river
From the creator to the created
A hand to offer, hand to hold
So much for power and for wisdom
For every story ever told
Has been by his hands
Amazed. This was burried in my drafts.
I'd rather fill the drafts
than post them public
Feel free from flowing words
and be never be...
Silence, I'd want all of it.
Running so fast after that button was missed
Too anxious to really make it a hit
Among everyone, there'd be admiration
A sun, or two.
But the work wasn't up to par for you
At least that's what I heard
I don't write for anyone, as blunt as that may seem
I still find myself looking for approval
For the work already created
I'm not looking for validation
To create and be creative
But often too afraid to strike out
Of work, I'm most vulnerable of.
I don't ever want to create a piece that has no resolution
To just leave an open wound or thought
Left to be just that
I feel obligated to share a brightening shade to my darkest moments
In order for someone to truly benefit from my shared work
That is why the pieces in my drafts, stay in draft.
But what I can tell you is,
I'm still not always ok.
I feel like my life is kept in the drafts folder.
Yeah, I'm always progressing in life, in the journey
Even in what seem like standstill moments
Of solitude and suffering.
But that's the thing,
So isn't all work, published or not in life, still a "draft"?
None of our journies are over yet.
Let's share our drafts
And create our finished work, together
Relevant then hatred,
All at once in a different state
Portals and doors,
Your love for someone
Nobody can duplicate
Filed up in a contrasted room
For selections that we may and may not pursue
Though a few should be kept hidden
They stumble forwards and get installed in a granite,
Enchanting, yet a fearsome tinted enigma
Bolted in the word, "privacy",
And the key was a puma's race
Saved but aren't erased
Archived courses shall remain
May the forgotten be remembered in drunk mishaps
Only my feelings for you are sustained,
Permanent nor Temporary,
Located in the district called; a file of drafts
I don’t believe in size and fit
Or the split head’s of animals that
Cross the aching mind of the girl I’m with.
If its disease is blood then we’ve all got this
Same type of familiar sickness, just don’t Think that you won’t have to bother with it.
There’s a symptom, it shapes the skull
And wraps it with wire and twine. It’s just a Plaything or a ******* eating the fruit from The beasts and scarlet joys in the stashes
Of instant reliefs. Smooth arches off the
Feigning mood lines in the rough shadow
In your tourmaline corpse. Jostling in a glass bed of horror *** and crying as you wake up in a garden where nothing lives.
Shakes, too. Betting starvation and whet with the shivers in this strafe.
It was like if we kissed eachother hard enough we would eventually become tidal waves that crashed into one another, never having to be seperate ever again.
"Do you love me?" No.
Because the sun's still shining
And the Earth is spinning
I did, but now I don't.
"So much that it hurts?" No.
Because I finally managed
To move on
Past the things I used to hold on to.
"That it's scary?" No.
Because I've let go of everything
That included you, me,
And every little thing in between.
"I loved you." That's great.
"You rejected me." That's fine.
"I gave up." Congratulations.
Because I'd hate to have toxic people around me.
draft. Or so.
Oh, by the way, guilt tripping is not nice :>
I try and recycle my broken thoughts
To construct a poetry
though most of them stay in drafts
some of them
get to shine