DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, I'm well aware that nothing makes sense, including this poem :>

content is not something we give consent
you hold your pen yet the ink spills as it pleads
you are a walker of blood yet it sheds out when cut & bent
you have a brain yet the tongue blurts out the feels

content is not something we color
just an acceptance of the past
just a canvas you get to paint with limit bother
good for a day then a memory till it lasts

the kiss of a palm forehead & cheek
drafts in my head just to render a sleep
some greed never fed or a satisfaction to meet
yellow till it goes mustard & a shade deep

the saving of a night that would save the day
it's like it's gold but your swallowing the sand?
the desperation for a treasure at some bay
how would I even find content when out of the hand?


                                                         ­                         --------ravenfeeels

Our connection was intense
Our kiss was toxic but sweet
The colour of your eyes was like autumn
I was so keen
I was all in

Our bond was strong
Filled with pure alcohol
And when I got sober
I saw clearly the end
You pointed it out for me

I followed your arrow
I followed your footsteps
And you led me to the exit
Now I need a compass
To get the hell out of your soul

Nothing lasts forever, doesn't?