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Man Jun 2023
The accusations, interrogations,
The threats of ending us.
Lamentation, of an aberration
Of love that lived alone, so long.
The blood that pumps, your cause,
Does not dry, but ebb and flow.
But interruptions, from obstructions,
Can lead it to die instead of grow.
Without communicating,
How do we form our interpretations?
Absent enumerating,
What is love? But an unsolvable equation. And if all we are, is wrong,
The only answer is separating
I don't write poetry
I write emotions and experiences
interpreted as demented delusions
heartbreak and heartwake
mindsets and trivial stories
from the past, present or a predicted future
deciphered in to something meant to explore
it's all the same without a brain
to make the words written more than words
a poet only does half of the work
your emotions, your experiences,
your delusional interpretations,
your heartbreak, your mindsets
your past and your personality create the poetry
what you take from it is unique
a little piece of someone else
just for you
Hayley Cusick Sep 2014
my perspectives seem to be skewed.
uneven and drawn to misguided conclusions.
I'm left tilted and jilted
from my own interpretations.
flawed is my nature
with exceptional and judgmental accusations.
I'm not saying that I'm a wreck,
but I'm a ship that seems to have made a wrong turn
and I've somehow found my way to the bottom of the sea.
BDR Apr 2014
I can't tell,

If you'd love to see me

And show me around,

Or if you'd prefer to have me

On the ground.

— The End —