Weekends were weak ends,
and
became energizers
since you came in life..

Old memories

There's a riddle-shaped hole
Cutting deep in my heart
but I gave up in it
Long ago
I swore I had
Accepted defeat
But every now and then
I'll catch myself
Digging at
The riddle-shaped hole
You left
So long ago

I tore down every bridge,
and every wall to let you in.

I dried lakes, rivers, oceans,
to save you from drowning.

I found myself,
draining in weakness to strengthen you.

You became powerful, you became immortal,
you became my god.

Now I clench onto this sadness of mine.
The loneliness you left behind.

Its the only thing that reminds me,
our story was once alive.

Its my safe place.
When you're gone,

and I need a muse to help
bleed all this pain out.

Like tonight,
when writing about the moon,
can no longer help me survive.


Sandoval

To Drew..
Sam 7h

I tried to write a poem tonight
But I found myself...
Stuck
The same three words echoing in my mind
The same three words...
I miss you.

zero 12h

There is something so relentlessly exhausting about being someone's second.
The twinge in your throat when they say 'You should have come', like inviting you was a chore.
Or the way they smile, tilt their head, their hand meets your arm and they mutter; 'I guess I forgot to invite you.'
Like those seven words would make feeling of nausea in your stomach evaporate and become nothing less than a fleeting feeling.
Those seven words act like daggers, they plummet into your very being, tearing up the feelings of comfort and control, making you lose the confidence it took years to build up.
Those seven words become a burden.

You were forgotten.

Forgotten by those very friends you remember being your shoulder to cry on, your wing man, your number one.
Those seven words become your motto.
'Hi, my name is Hollow and people forget to invite me to my favourite places!'

Friends like mine seem to forget that the meal they want you not to attend is actually your birthday meal YOU had to suggest.
I hear them say; 'Why do you have to go? You're always so busy?'
They never ask, 'Why do you want to go so badly? Why are you always so busy?'
The reason being I'm trying to forget about being forgotten.
I work so hard to make my boss remember my name so on days like today when I pass him in the hallway he doesn't go;
'Hey' and hesitate before saying, 'Hollow... am I right?..." with a tight, forced smile, forehead sweaty...
Embarrassed he forgot his employees name but surprisingly not embarrassed for the employee.
I want to attend the meal so badly to keep myself from being at home alone, surrounded by the expensive things I buy to forget my forgotten self.
I want to attend the meal so badly because spending times with friends is the only thing that's kept me around for so long.
I beg so hard now people have started to think I go for the meal itself, like I couldn't buy cheaper food and enjoy it better at home, where people aren't surrounding me, engulfing me with conversations about topics I have no interest in.
Where people aren't asking me;
'Hows work?'
'What happened between you and Zero?'
'Why haven't you been texting Dilon?'
'Why are you so quiet'

So, I've become accustomed to the twinge in my throat when they say; 'You should have come' because I've noticed hanging out with me has turned into a chore.  
OR the way they smile, tilt their head, the warmth of their hand on my arm as they mutter; 'I guess I forgot to invite you.'
because I know I won't be the most exciting person to converse with.
And most of all, I've become accustomed to the feeling of nausea and the stabbings of millions of tiny daggers, because I've figured out that's my plan for the rest of my life.

To be forgotten, like I never existed in the first place.

My loving Zero,

forever yours,
Hollow. xo

I use to worry, sitting at home lying on the couch wondering just how long I could go before drifting off into some psychedelic slumber. Wondering how long it would take for you to find your way home from a bed two towns away. I use to think of all the ways I could maybe, for a while, get you to stay. That I could try and make you remember the cold January nights when sleet covered Philadelphia's streets and icicles hung from windows, yet we stayed outside, because for the oddest of reasons we were happy out there.

I use to stay up late, sitting on the kitchen floor against the fridge, staring up at the yellow fluorescent light above the sink watching fruit flies dance to some unknown rhythm. Shoulders drooping, arms laid haphazardly at my side like fresh snow shoveled from a driveway. I guess I found some comfort gathering from the tired warmth that blew from the fridge vent, some stale form of heat, that if I closed my eyes and dreamed seemed almost like passion. Almost like acceptance, almost peace, almost satisfaction, almost like you weren't gone.

I use to be so cautious. Cover my shoulders, keep to yourself, don't let them stare as you cross the street. Just come home, just come home where you belong, you were there. At least you use to be. Then sometime under the dehydrated September sky I settled at the front step. I let myself stay free for a few more moments, and it grew. Everyday I would stay outside the front door a little longer - as I began to not flinch at every creak coming down the street because I knew it couldn't have been you. You were in some other city, down on some other street, in another house, with some other fool that let you be their everything.

The simplest things are the first to change.

You eased out of my life like the slack of a power line, coasting away a little every day till I could only see you as a horizon, and then beyond. No sooner had every piece of you eased out of my house, life drifted back in. I sat on that couch and little by little every day, yellow dripped from the ceiling. The smell of lilac flowering from the walls, and for the first time in a while, an empty apartment felt filled. Occupied. Present.

Tasmika 16h

When I die
bury me in tattered robes
beneath the ground from which my tulips shall grow

When I die
feel neither pain nor anguish
but in a lilac hue feel peace and spirituality

When I die
bathe me in milk and marigold petals
caress my skin with tender hands

When I die
perform not a religious dispute
but a colourful celebration of a life fully lived

and When I die
share my works of art
my poems and portraits
my thoughts and visions
everything that I am
everything that I was
and everything that I dreamt to be

T.B
10/08/16

https://www.wattpad.com/story/119765592-poetry-by-hazypacific

I want to fuck you hard on the kitchen counter
Then collect all your juices into a wine glass
And sip it slowly so it'll lasts longer
Because this sacred wine of your essence
Is too holy to be gulped down in an urgency,

You bless my eyes with your nakedness
Looking like the only brave angel to pull me out of Hell,
This Hell that I cannot be saved from unless
You help with loving hands and soul full of spells,

I cannot explain how much you affect my existence...
My love to you is as large as the universe
It stretches deep into the starry abyss
And it cannot be measured as it is of infinite appearance.

Rhyme:
A rhyming poem has the repetition of the same or similar sounds of two or more words, often at the end of the line.
Amanda 18h

I know I am holding on too tightly.
Afraid that if I lift my grasp,
You will slip through my fingers like sand.

Her lips, an apocalypse
And I'm on my way to my undoing.

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