how quickly you can be discarded
when something better comes along.
deep down you know it's your fault,
but you decide to pity yourself.
you flip through their photos;
smiling faces gleam back at you.
"why wasn't i invited?"
that small and jealous child
that lives in my mind whines at me.
this child quickly becomes a glooming figure.
a figure of some black fog
that seeps through my veins
and swallows me whole.
this is the autobiography of a second choice.
the choice they forgot about.
the choice they see
when all the smoke is clear,
and one sad, sullen apparition awaits;
wanting to be chosen.
with my head down,
and my hopes high,
i walk with them.
Your inability to take accountability shows me the type of man I was with.
I finally poured my heart out to tell you how you hurt me... you were silent.
Whenever I am content
Or am feeling content,
There’s always an air ready
To brush away or undo my content,
Just as a wrapper of gifts
Witnesses her efforts to conceal shredded
By the recipient.
For the record, I am not intending to be sexist and say that
only females wrap gifts; I just feel like often, in similes and metaphors,
the pronoun "his" is too much of a default, and I wanted to mix up the usage of identification pronouns somewhat. Also, as far as the poem goes, I run into this type of case A LOT in life lol.
I'm not who I'm supposed to be
But I will be
There’ll never be a day,
You look through my windows,
As I’ll never see through yours.
But I do love surprises.
And that’s me being a pessimist in love
My father said, "Son, your poetry is technically proficient and you certainly have mastered style, but you just say the words outright. You don't hide the meaning behind guile."
He told me that poetry was for interpretation of the reader, I was just to merely guide feeling but it was up to the reader to have to think.
Well, Dad. I think I'll have to disagree.
For me, poetry was a way to confront my fears of failure. To say the words I couldn't speak. To handle the loss of friends and family. To cope with the things that make me weak.
I suppose what I'm saying, Father, is I think poetry can be a narrative, just like any prose. So I'll keep writing the way I do, and hopefully it'll be good enough for you.
And if I'm wrong, I won't be great. I will fade into the obscurity of eternity, but somehow that seems satisfactory to me.
i cant help but think
that right now,
somewhere in the world,
someone is listening to the same
song i am listening to,
someone is also reading the same
book i am reading,
someone is feeling the same
sadness that i am feeling.
but i like to think that i am the only
person who feels this way right now.
how big this universe is
but you were the only person who made it
feel as small as a classroom
when you looked at me for the first time
and thought that i was pretty.
how salt looks like sugar
or how satellites look like shooting stars.
these lies are so natural
but i never really understood the art of hurting people
so i created a lie that seemed so natural
so that i can leave you
with dreams and wishes we made together
for someone who never really understood me.
how in love i am with you
even though you are no longer mine
and will never be mine again.
and i cant stop thinking and talking
even though we are miles apart.
i dont even know where you are.
i cant help but think where you are
and if you're happy.
but the thought of you being happy
is enough for me to live another day,
less sad than yesterday.
i hope you are happy.
and he is.
This state of limbo is the calmest and scariest place to be.
Where all of these decisions seem to matter long before they've been made.
And here I am just staring down the possibilities...
I can stop you know.
I have self control and that is something I can be sure of.
But even now, what are we supposed to do?
I'll start with saying this:
I'm not going anywhere.
I am not a guarantee for what you might want, but I won't leave.
So here's what I propose:
Stop. Think. Act.
And sure, that's brutal honesty, and it's not easy.
But you've got an iron will do you not?
Just watch some TV with me.
Whatever happens, I'll be sure to be here. You know that.
It's Christmas eve but my soul doesn't know it
When I was young I had the spirit
And now Christmas doesn't mean ****