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alexxa Mar 2018
today i lost myself.
i had a few drinks.
i cried it all away.
being without you isn't good for me.
but i guess being with me isn't
good for you.
every day i look at your contact.
it has a yellow heart beside your name
because you said it would symbolize
the light we brought to each other's lives.
i want to hit the call button.
i want to call you up.
but what would i say?
and would you even pick up?
would you have something to say.

everyone who reads my words
probably thinks i'm completely pathetic.
why can't you just let go?
he doesn't care so why do you?

and the answer is simple.
i can't.
he was the first boy i ever loved.
the only one who understood me.
he saw my scars and didn't run.
he kissed them.
the ones that were faded along my wrists,
and the ones that were new along my hips.
he told me that he would always be around to
build me up if i fell down.

but where is he now?
about to go on tour in a different country.
and i always found the states hard,
but now he's even farther.

i suppose it'll hurt more when he's close to me.
so close that i can smell his cologne that mixed
so nicely with the axe he wore.
but so far where i can't see him.
i only picture him each and every time
i pass the hotel i last saw him in.
this is an absolute mess. my head is spinning.
EricM Mar 2018
We're all so lonely
The rich are lonely
The poor are lonely
Bourgeois died of lonely

The **** are lonely
The average are lonely
But really the beautiful
Are the most lonely

He is so lonely
She is so lonely
The hardest to admit:
I am so lonely

Even when you are here
And the band is playing
"Let's Get It On"
By Marvin Gaye
I.* there is no thicker undergrowth than feeling. first to go is reason, everything
    else levitates into something graver than say, one foot deep  in the grave
     and the other somewhere off-tangent like an offbeat adagio zigzagging
      into slammed slalom.

II. the crush of oregano against mortar, and the clasping of a hand. carbon monoxide
      fades into air as youth takes on momentousness. take for instance this once soft
    hand like a breath of cotton in a precipitate noon: once whirling in claustrophobic
      space, this slight inch of feelingfulness is dazed into the span of *Maya
       somewhere unseen like paramours *******.

III. from the window you can feel the bluster of falsetto disintegrate at its slouched peak,
       and from where you hear it, a dance thwarts itself like a cigarette ember
       convulsing mid-air – that slow, repugnant twitch: that is you, when you first
        broke your silence in thick shrouds of disgust over strobe-lighted simian jaw.

IV. what else is there but to take this sour ocean in front of me and decode something
       the blue always means mellow but the froth of white something the tragic caprice
        of tropic: some nights, they remind me of bodies careening repeatedly; some days
                    they just are, like you, just are, like a riot and only sound, or sleep and only
          reticence, something short of wonder and terse with reply.

V. there is a cluster of harmonies flowering in my mind when the sensurround of din
        starts conflagrations in the ornate dark of ear. my limbs snake in the garden
        of plank, my shin bitten in sharp reiterations – my mind crossing the equinox
         looking for shade, or possible, a parasol underneath the crimson of rain.
           say this is the sky, this dense space when I motion both hands into a length
       not an inch could ever devour. suddenly a boy made out of a man, flustered
        in jangled arpeggios and unapologetic thought like a letter of debt opened,
         paying no heed the mind and only what the body dictates: a smash on the
    escritoire or vigorously scratching scalp, reopening scabs and watching
                old blood ooze dry like a lightweight webbed impression
  of       a    dreamy legato.

VI. the night deepens with the warmth of its black upholstery – we do not know
      when to stop and bid for home. last to go is will of force and first to arrive
     in the bleakness like a recalcitrant thought often straying outside with the
       strut of a yuppie, fervor of old haunt. i conjure an image over the cold chair,
    its steel framework thighs untouched, its four decrepit legs the foundation
       of something that refuses to admit its weakness. the very base of what would
   catch the anchorage of my gravity, the very heart of all, and the flattened back
      with a vandal that says “Soleil was here.” the liver shattering in the trance
                    of everything.

VII. night is stupor. i am the lilt of words from a rambunctious machine.         there seems to be an afterthought that separates
                       a concept of vastness and the tactility of narrow ether.
        a word is uttered in extremis - something heaven eschews
                with its bright, arrogant face.
some drunken rambling.
Sarah Gammon Jun 2014
I want to be a figment of your imagination;
where images of angels spotlessly deceive
a dreamy serpent lady embodying indignation,
and you can't see the difference in between.

I want to be the reality of the situation;
when something happens you can't silence me
and every thought and move has consideration
on the level of difficulty to sit silently.

I want to be the mouse in the corner of the kitchen party;
afraid of bodies, eyes, words, and souls,
I much prefer if nobody is able to catch up to me
since I can't emotionally sail in seas with a ship full of holes.

I want to be a memory you don't regret;
disappointment burns like a thousand candles
'cause I begged myself to be someone you won't detest
but to believe in myself is something I can't handle.

I want to feel free from the memories of failure;
I remember everything that made me get lost at sea,
and it's sink or swim when you're a love sailor
and my lack of proper training proved to be costly.

I want to be the person you think of first;
there is no moment that couldn't be better
without a little serotonin star burst
to ease troubles and keep people together.

I want to feel forgiveness and remorse from you;
the 5 stages of grieving is a healing process
and honestly I don't know if I'm done with step 2,
but I should be on step 3 since I just wrote this.
Copyright Sarah-jg

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