Four walls …two bodies
Trapped words ...white noise blaring.
Setting the house on fire
You... me … still standing burning.
Pretending the fire isn't there.
Sometimes I wanna
Say I am in a trouble...
But like the same...
You say BYE and
My words go UNSAID!!!
Love is not only about the feelings... sometimes it means mental supports too...
A thousand different scenarios
I build in my head,
laying awake at night,
watching the forlorn sky
and try to conjure up
the reaction you give me
as it finally dawns you.
But the scenarios dissolve
as reality crashes
and it settles in my stomach
like a ton of bricks
that you will always remain oblivious
to what you mean to me.
Silence is not always absence of noise.
Sometimes it's just presence of noise shut inside.
I'm sorry that i never know what to say when we talk.
it's funny, actually, because there are many things
i'd like to tell you.
i just don't know how.
meant for 'him'
When you’re blue in the brain as each hour ticks by,
you start to see a multitude of temporary people in your life
You get used to people coming and going
but they never seem to stay
They all just want to fix you
They pour their
“I’m here for you"s
and "it’s going to be okay"s
into your mouth like NyQuil
The words lull you into a sleep
full of hopes and dreams
of becoming someone real
You talk in your sleep
and release all the bad thoughts into the night sky
where you believe they can fly among the constellations
But then you wake up to the harsh frost on the windows
and the crushed nebulas in your hands
and the "I’m here for you”
turns into “I just can’t do this anymore, you’re dragging me down”
I should know better by now
not to form attachments
but the crystal in my head is constantly searching
for something to cling to
Sometimes people are drawn to the tortured poet
that howls to the moon like her soul is burning
But whenever they are,
it is always temporary
Sadness is seen as contagious
and it scares people to see that it’s real
They don’t want to be infected
They attempt to kiss your pain away
and they dress you all in yellow
in order to try to make you happy
But soon enough
you’ll grab that black shirt that smells like home out of your closet
and suddenly those so infatuated with you
now just look at you with dead eyes
And before you know it
you’re driving away from the parking lot
or hanging up the phone
and you’ve got nothing left in you
but the flecks of yellow paint on your hands
that looks a little too much
like those dandelions you ripped out of the ground earlier
I’ve done my best to push yellow and orange into my brain
but all that I get is a darker blue
Sometimes I paint my face purple
and I become the violet face of the broken down house
with an unapproachable mystery lurking within
but most stay away
Those who come near are inevitably disappointed
when the hurricane hits and the paint starts to decay,
leaving only blue walls in its former magenta glory
They expect to find explanations for its tint
but all they find is more blue
So maybe that’s why all the “I can’t do this”
and all the “you’re so **** sad all the time”
and all the “I can’t wait around for you to get better” phrases
hit me like loads of concrete
I find attachments
and I pour my hope into them,
thinking maybe what they say will ring true this time
and that they’ll be able to fix me
He left her with a tight hug,
but her soul stung.
He left her with unsaid words,
but her heart shattered.
He left her in the most tranquil way,
but it made her broken.
She couldn't find the answer,
but she knows, silence is a killer.
*-Steph Dionisio, August 24, 2015
It isn't fair, you know.
That you get to sleep peacefully
while I toss and turn in bed-
clawing at my arms
and trying to will my thoughts away.
Yet another new series (mind you, I still haven't finished the first one). Text messages that I almost sent, then chose not to, for some reason or another. The song for this poem is "Wherever You Are" by Angus and Julia Stone.
i wish i told her
how much i loved her poetry;
her poetry was music to my ears
and calligraphy to my eyes,
no matter how messy her handwriting.
each was a masterpiece,
each was a song,
each told a story,
regardless of how illegible;
and i can't stand knowing
that i'll never get to fall in love
with her art ever again.
— The End —