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Ezis Mar 27
You are only friends with me when it is convenient for you
Ignore me every day
Come into our room and stay quiet
Coinhabitants; living but not talking
I know if it weren't for living together
you wouldn't want me around

We once were friends
now I think you barely can stand to be around me
What a shame

I remember the way you jumped into my arms
and declared that you were my roommate
when we stood in my old bedroom

Now I stand here deciding
stay or go?
Ezis Mar 26
The worst things about college
is living with someone
who was once your friend
but is no longer

Once we were friends
happy to be in each other's company
but now she doesn't speak to me
even though we inhabit the same space

I go through my day
being the same as before
but they ignore me and keep their heads down
when I pass them in the hall or on the way to class

I live in a space
where I am not wanted
I live in a space
where people talk around me
I live in a space
where girls talk about me when I'm not around

I wish I could leave
but there is still 56 days left in the semester
44 days since the fall out that changed my college life forever
That time has gone quickly
but was not without distress or misery
Will these 56 go by faster? I can hope
Tonight my empty soul misses its angelic mate
With whom every precious moment was a date.
Wonderous strides makes you look so beautiful
Press your lips to my soul, let's curdle and be delightful
Do you see the rainbow flower that I've become?
Come to me, love of my life, for love injection, come.
Come with me let's fly beyond today and go somewhere
Like migratory birds, let's hop, there and everywhere.
Right now with you I can't see through amourous hues
Yet I love you beyond jazz, rock and rhythm and blues.
Each moment with you makes me beam with smiles
Tonight I rest Assured that the passion fruits is mines.

IBPoetry©
2/5/2018
Soul mates are not roommates.
Sarah Robinson Apr 2017
I'm not sure if I should complain anymore
Maybe this is my fault, I literally chose this life
Clothes on the floor, in the bathroom, overflowing everywhere
And she sleeps comfortably
4 more weeks
Lights burning until 5 am when you should probably be asleep because we both know you'll probably sleep through your 8 am, 8:15 am, 8:30 am alarms
And your classes, how many have you missed this semester?
Don't even reply
I chose this life the moment I chose to live here
But I didn't choose you
I didn't choose random civilians sleeping on our floor
Only to be alerted to their random comment on our behavior at 6 am when it's dark and the last thing a girl wants to hear in the midst of darkness is an unfamiliar male voice
4 more weeks
I did not choose your habits
The dishes have been piling up and
Is that mold on your sponge, don't answer that either
You laugh at the strangest things and maybe there shouldn't be a smile on your face while holding sharp objects
I did not choose my polar opposite in the worst possible way
We are like literal day and night and I never thought that I would hate it this much
4 more weeks
Just 4 more and then nothing but the bliss of being alone again in a safe place
My space
b e mccomb Jul 2016
Anxiety keeps Depression
Up all night and then
Depression sleeps
All day.

And every day they
Argue over the things they
Did or didn't say
Did or didn't do.

Sometimes they watch
TV together
But they never
Enjoy it.

Anxiety is in college and
Depression doesn't help her
Edit her papers when
She asks nicely.

Depression had a good job
She enjoyed but she ended up
Losing it and now Anxiety
Nags at her to find another.

Neither of them can
Find friends, so even though
They hate each other
They're all they've got.

They keep trying to date
But every time one brings
Home someone else, the
Other scares them off.

Depression is messy
With piles everywhere
But Anxiety keeps the kitchen
Spotlessly clean.

Anxiety can't stop bossing
Depression around
But Depression can't stop pulling
The covers over her head.

Anxiety and Depression
Are roommates
In a mental
Apartment building.

And I'm waiting for Anxiety
To forget to renew the lease
And Depression to be too
Tired to do it herself.
Copyright 11/21/15 by B. E. McComb
Anig Muh Jun 2016
I just want everyone to be happy, why can't I be?
My head hurts,
as my heart parts from my body,
is this what's left of me?

Detached numbness I feel,
is this the calm before the storm?
How will I go on,
without your presence as the norm?

I am a rubberband,
pulled tightly by those who care for me.
I bend and pull in knots,
when will I snap completely?
Inevitable, but I socialize my way into solitude,
mournful of my own attitude.

You're such a good person,
it's my fault
it is my fault.
I never wanted you locked up in a vault,
though I'm now safe
from your preying on my insecurities,
my mind is still busy and full of formalities.

Everyone thinks I'm better off waging war,
but I just wanted peace.
Still, you needed to be gone,
you weren't even on my lease.
The feelings still shake me that I cannot release,
Regret and Remorse
Your love a drug highway,
I GPS'd the course.
Driving forever,
Stranded
The love ran out,
I searched and I pleaded
but there's no fuel about.

Don't ever forget that I care,
even if to you it seems wrong.
One Day I'll convince you,
in Rhyme, and in Song.

I will remind you,
it wasn't farewell, but goodbye.
When I told you I loved you,
it was never a lie.

I still just want everyone to be happy, why can't I?
Jamie Lee Apr 2016
So..there's this girl....
that I cannot avoid,
inside and out,
she is destroyed.

So, this girl...
I see everyday-
it's too difficult,
to live this way.

Sometimes, this girl,
comes close to danger;
igniting my temper-
this close stranger.

Sometimes..this girl...
just needs a friend,
someone to care,
not pretend.

Except, this girl...
doesn't make it easy,
always giving excuses-
big, little *****.

So, this girl...
a test of my patience,
making it harder;
we have no relations.
Copyright ©2016 Jamie Johnson
softcomponent Feb 2015
What made Anthony so elaborately cold in those early autumn months? What made him glare so sourly at my exhaustion whenever I slithered past his adonis figure in our overwhelmingly ***** kitchen? Was I the quintessence of a terrible roommate? Irresponsible? Ditzy? Was the kitchen—in its pig-trough pig-sty bacon-grease glory—tacitly my fault, despite the observation it'd been I who had purged the mess last? Or was it my drug habits and the fact that on the night Anthony returned from his impulsive trip to Alaska, I was with Chris—blasting Bob Dylan and the Tallest Man on Earth—cradling my chin on the jean-sand islands of my cramping knees, high as a shuttle in the ketamine nebula? These were all questions that stoked the fires of internal doubt whether I liked it or not. People pretend to talk themselves out of status anxiety as if it were possible to entirely neutralize such a natural reaction—as if it were possible not to wonder what earned such irrational disfavor in the eyes of another. Especially when “another” is a roommate, an almost omnipotent staple in day to day life even if efforts are taken to ignore or avoid—a constant weave of growing atmospheric pressure and a pang of anxiety at the sight of his shoes or the sound of his grunts and clangs while at work on a meal in the kitchen—of course, as is obvious, I can take things far too personally. But there were points in which his silence or indifference would scare me—as if he might've wound up a psychopath and broke my neck in a fit of overboiled passive-aggression.
To be fair and give the reader a clearer picture of Anthony, he had—historically—been an incredibly generous fellow and a relatively close friend long before we approached one another on the idea of potential roommates. He was large in build—not overweight in any sense—but incredibly fit with an active agenda to exercise and eat right, both habits of which I had never had the stamina to maintain. Girls loved him. Physically, he was gorgeous—puffy curled hair deliberately stylized into a modern European pompadour; dark hazel eyes with a constantly evolving dynamism in the way they gazed... and a masculine stubble that seemed to naturally grow-out to look as posh as David Beckham, just without all the effort and pomp. Mentally, he was the perfect synthesis of adorable geek, thoughtful philosopher, and strikingly suave, dapper, athletic, and goofy 'good-guy'—he was always out with his friends or at home reading Terry Goodkind's fantasy novels, and on occasion I would see that his looks were almost burdensome to him. As if they were a superfluous gift and a personal curse—constantly forcing him into social over-exertion as an extrovert when he, at heart, was a closet introvert unable to disentangle his self-reflective image from his internal reality. As if he were unable to process the amount of attention he received.
I had tacitly wondered, at times, if he was also in-the-closet regarding something else as well, though I had always admired his effeminate qualities and mannerisms as he never once hinted at a negative self-consciousness about their strange manifestations in open view of the world. Externally, at least, he never acted like they were problems or indicative of some internal lack of found-definition, even on the comical occasion when I walked in on him bathing on his lonesome, quietly listening to Miley Cyrus and playing with a troupe of three rubber duckies—the bathroom light off and several candles burning in aesthetically strategic corners of the room. He also constantly brewed tea using an adorable teapot designed to look like an elephants head, with the hot liquid pouring from the Disney-like characters trunk. This—I reflected—was most certainly connected to his love for the 1941 children's classic, Dumbo. It was a movie he and I held in common, having watched it together on multiple occasions before our cohabiting turned sour. Of course, what was most indicative of this private wandering judgement of mine was the fact that he worked at the city's only *** bar as the youngest bartender employed. At 1 AM every night, all the bartenders (whom were pre-screened eye candy for the patrons' sake) would peel off their skin-tight neon tops and romp around shirtless, shouting last-call through the bright-eyed frey of top 40 hits and cannonading flirtations.  
Not that I wish to put him under the microscope, as if any feminine qualities in a man were something strange or problematic to me—nor do I wish to study his mannerisms like a condescending anthropologist of imperial Britain, establishing pathological definitions for what was never an illness to begin with. No... I ask these questions because he decided, one day, that he didn't like me. I ask these questions because I came upon him in the living room multiple times listening to Alan Watts's lectures on taoism—a strange anxious-emptiness behind his eyes—and when I began to worry he was dipping into some sort of existential depression, I approached him with an Alan Watts book—The Wisdom of Insecurity—in order to make a recommendation and strike up therapeutic conversation on the basis of  a philosopher we had in common. As I did so, he would frantically nod and avert eye-contact, hiding any perturbation well enough for me to assume he was still with me as I spoke. I later found the book on top of the fridge and placed it back on my shelf thinking, 'he probably has a ton to read as is.' It only became apparent when I finally decided to ask him if he was unhappy with me—this was about 2 weeks before he finally moved out—and he responded with, “I've definitely been annoyed that you use my stuff and eat my food all the time without compensation or asking,” which I understood at first until I realized I only did so because he did the same—constantly eating my cereal, using my milk, reorganizing my couches in the living room—but I didn't mind because I assumed it was a reciprocal arrangement and thus took his eggs and his bacon on the assumption (and belief) in pooled communal resources. But he continued: “And you talk at me all the time about things I have no interest in which is kinda frustrating,” which confused me even further when it was only friendly concern I was tacitly attempting to translate into his feeling wanted and liked by the person he lived with. These words, in the end, released the built-tension between us like a bursting pressure valve. He eventually apologized for how he'd behaved, and then largely disappeared from my life.

Sometimes I'll be brushing my teeth, and I'll wonder if he's doing alright. I'll wonder if he found his taoist balance in either silence or speech.
originally written as a personal assignment for my Creative Nonfiction class.
Sid Jan 2015
Moving
     everyone's        cars in
the morning

before work

is       always

a                                


                     ­       struggle .
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