I couldn't find a song
The music didn't fit
No lyrics could describe
The wall the we hit
The pain
Our lies
You leaving so abruptly
Looking back at it now
It all sounds so funny
You learn to forgive
But its hard to forget
We'll always have a connection
That we can never unlive
So you showed me in songs
Just how you feel
I'll tell you in word
So you know that its real
We had a good run
We loved
And we lost
I forgive you for alot
As long as you forgive me
For calling the cops
There will always be a place
Right in my heart
And I hope every night
You don't fall apart
Confession: in your absence
Searched such topics

Enable to pen you in my poem.
Theme: when subconscious divinity governs a content of the thought.
Bret 1h
i bought beer
for the first time today.
ive never been drunk before.
that's not hyperbole
or some kind of metaphor.
ive literally never been drunk before.

never been me.
i just know what it does
and what it would do to me.
but here we are
the end of whatever is left.

i cut my hand on the cap
when i put it in my bag.

i slide down a mud hill
to get to the bus

the bus driver
wouldn't let me back on the bus.
it was the same fucking bus driver
that handed me the transfer
to take the fucking bus home.

i dont think god wants me to buy beer
tristia 2h
in a poorly lit hallway,
in footsteps guided by ease,
where i promised i would stay,
they will parade themselves to please,
they will pretend i do not exist.
i will shrink in classroom corners,
and cry;
allowing, years to pass me by;
try to breathe, try to sleep
entertain dark thoughts that slowly
you will call them brave.
inspo: Penelope by Dorothy Parker
Anji 6h
We were all loved so imperfectly,
it's hard not to hate those that weren't.
The ones who don't flinch when they think about the past, but laugh.
And I've been trying to repaint the pictures hanging in those frames, soft from memory
Trying to find new shades and
Trying to admire the ways
That they are unique. They are mine. They're worth keeping.

I've considered suicide. She's attempted it four times. That could be our battle cry - "we never asked to be alive"
But now we're here
And what do we do?
In a place where there's no pity for fuck-ups or pale scars on wrists or empty bowls burning from final embers, their lungs inhaling it so beautifully.

I never smoked it, but I'm in love with the silver dragons that swirl in the air all around it. I could watch it pour from their lips for hours, could soak in the sweet stench for days, could count away everything else until I count down to nothing.
Nothing. But here.

No more worries or chores or judgments or wondering what people think of me or caring too much or trying too hard and failing, failing.
He tells me that he's changed. Of course I still love him.
But it will never be the same.
here's a spontaneous free write for all of you that I wrote last year. fuck that guy, by the way. doesn't matter if he says he's changed, his actions betray that he's the same. when people show you who they are my friends, believe them.
An unwritten poem
is as a beautiful maiden
laying dead
on a sheet of paper;
a single drop of ink
falls into her veins,
coaxing the first feeble
pulse of her heart.

One more drop,



it's beat strengthens
and she rises,
prepared for her grand ballet;
each prance and twirl
tracing every word,
every line;
choreographing her beautiful tale,
until the last drop of ink is spent,
and she collapses
into the period at the end
of the final stanza.
the inspiration for this hit me while watching the olympic ice dancing competition
Happiness is easy -
when I look at her.

Happiness is easy -
when I hold her hand.

Happiness is easy -
when I kiss her lips.

Happiness is easy -
when she is with me.
A 8h
Sometimes people don't want to let go,
Sometimes they beg to stay,
Sometimes they want to be on earth,
Their death makes them sad, but there is no other way,
And no matter where they go, heaven or hell,
Their sorrow follows their souls, even on a bright new day,
And when their sobbing specters arrive at eternity's gate,
Their hearts are still and emptier still,
And with their emptiness they must wait.
Inspired by Vincent Van Gogh's painting of the same name.
She's a song
you'll never hear
because you never listened.
Panda 9h
Bubbling kettle
Rising heat, Exploding steam
Drinking soulful tea
Tea over coffee
Wine over beer
Dogs over cats
Next page