I flip through my notebook
of empty pages,
and I can imagine
the way they would
full of color
but I am afraid to ruin one page.
So I just flip through my notebook
of empty pages.
But I do know someone who could color them perfectly.
You were the missing part
In my lonely heart
When I touch your skin with my pen
My blood would rush through my veins
When you hold my hand
I would write a love poem
On your delicate body.
don’t even know
what i want anymore,
writing poems in your notebook
on my apartment floor
opened my soul to you
like i've never done before
you roamed its empty hallways
then you slammed the front door
and now you beg me to let you back in
does your love ever end or begin?
i don't want to be stuck
on what could’ve been
but i'm exhausted
from repenting for every sin
ran outta ways
to numb my pain
when you're gone from my life
i smell your scent in the rain
all i wanted was my freedom
but you're a ball and chain
all i wanted was pure love
but this one's driving me insane
So here's the notebook of mine
Where I wrote all my sweet and cheesy lines
Please read all of this if you have time
Cause it's for you even I can't call you mine
This notebook will be the proof of my love for you
All the words and lines I wrote every page are true
Unlike Bruno Mars, you can just count on me until two
I'll be there because I love you and will always do
My love. I hope you'll remember me someday
Keep this notebook and don't throw it away
It's the summary of my feelings that I want to say
I love you forever, you're the reason why I pray
Rhymes in my Mind
What is complete can not ever be spoiled.
Static perfection in every point.
Slices of moments, magnificent world,
Life that's eternal in every word.
These are not just words
that rhyme or fit together
in some fancy, schmancy
catchy rhythmic flow
These are my thoughts
my inner beauty
my outer demons
typed on my kebyoard
stored on a web server
searched by web crawlers
presented to you
Here is my soul. Can we compare notes after class?
The feels of a poet are never easily explained,
A string of words,
Scratches of a pencil,
We pour our heart into the note book beneath our pillows.
Expressing our pain, sorrow and joy all in one place,
Our safe haven.
But if you ask how we are the answer never changes.
We are fine.
I feel like my notebook under my mattress is my safe haven, and it holds so many emotions and feelings that I can't explain any other way.
Savagely ripping through the white paper,
stripping it of its white pureness.
poetry on the making.
I love how my poetry
is modified by its support.
I had a bigger notebook before,
my verses hang like open bottles,
Now its smaller, shorter.
Just phrases separated by the end of the line
and hurry up 'cause the page is ending.
Many poems awaken inside me
So many that I only see words in front of me
It feels like my life is a notebook
Sounds I hear
Pictures that I see
And feelings that I feel
Turned into a poem in that notebook.
The opposite of creativity:
Staring at a blank sheet of
Notebook paper and thinking
The simplicity of the neatly
Placed blue lines is
I have an Instagram where I post some quotes from some of the (unpublished) novels I've written and even some poems, if you want to follow! It's @tianamariewrites