#hopelessromance
You left without saying goodbye.
Not a whisper, not a word, not even a reason why.
You could have said anything, perhaps told a lie,
But it would be better than nothing, a reason not to cry.
You thought yourself a footnote in the universe,
You were the spirit of my words, every line and every verse.
You taught me how to write,
How to take these feelings to colour from black and white.
You gave me everything, mostly your time,
While I gave you love and words that sometimes rhyme.
But everything I had was simply not enough,
Such that you left me in the dark and in the rough.
I understand that I made mistakes,
But in the recesses of my mind, a pathway paves,
Looking for reasons why you walked away,
From a home built for you, a place to stay.
I want to tell you that I love you, but the words are not there,
A heart once beating with no emotion to spare.
I hope you read these words I've written,
To find all the love yet to be given.
I hope these words inspire you to think,
For your name on my chest, in permanent ink.
This chapter will never come to an end,
For it is a chapter that only you and I could mend.
Oct 3, 2024
Oct 3, 2024 at 8:04 AM UTC
Is there a way
to play the game of love?
Are there tricks
to treat it differently?
Is there a way
to be unbroken?
Can I defy gravity
to not fall so easily?
Is there a way
to play it safe?
Is there a way to guard
these feelings of mine forever?
Is there a way to love
without hurting?
Is there a way to move on
without crying?
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 6:44 AM UTC
This
World
Is
A
Bittersweet
Reminder
Of
Us
Not
Living
Together
:/
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 1:16 PM UTC
Tis foolish is it not not?
How a man shalt get his kicks off some strange woman on a magazine cover
Yet whilst at the same time
There's a model right next to him!!!!
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 9:19 AM UTC
I was standing at her door knocking
(Knock) (knock)
(Knock) (knock)
Who's there,
She whispered
Tis me,
Me who she said
Tis thy amour'
Now open thy door!!!
(Her) Go away I dont need thou no more!!!
As I walked away Soo distraught
So emptied handed!!!
As everything made Soo much sense,
Until I lost mi amour'
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC
I do not,
Let me repeat,
Do not seeketh a (live-in) roommate as the world hast created,
I seeketh a soulmate,
A queen
One of ethreal belated..
One to whom to be related in marital stature!!!
For these ending times
Everyone's a roomie
Living with one, yet being strangers in their mist!!!
Get the gist?
Reader of so called loving words...
I seeketh not to be under the same cupola,
To only be one's guest!!!!
I seeketh a domain,
One of endless nest!!!!
Not as thou oh world!!!!!
Forgot love didst thou oh stranger?
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 9:15 AM UTC
we take a breath
I have a smoke
thank you for giving me your cold
you rub the menthol on my chest
I hold the camphor to my breast
sometimes all it takes is just a jacket button to break.
10 minutes on they'll drink champagne
and have their fun with party games
everybody yelling "cheese"
10 minutes from a third-world country
in the shadow of the rock
they don't have anyone that'll help
there isn't garbage on the ground
its the street that makes up the whole town
I know you don't even want to talk
You won't even take my calls}
After three years on and off
I would do anything at all.
Have the child of my blood
Then with blood I'd have enough.
Just a picture fairy tale
For a man with a cold and betrayed.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 12:32 AM UTC
Gold crown of Olympus, hair crown and
Skin gown. First we throw our bodies at
One another. Heaping piles of human soup.
Bold maneuvers, hands and mouths and
Boy meets girl lying down, on top, intertwined.
Skittish moves on a tryst. Wet fingers of freshly
Tendered infinite decibel pleasure screams.
Streamers above a long rooting movement.
Overture of Aphrodite. Sparkling, glitter woman,
Legs pressed tightly to the chest,
Loose appendages intertwined. Intersticed dactyls
In rapture, soothing. Bodies build to one heart's beat.
Two muses fused together. If I wasn't afraid I'd wake you up
I'd slip on my shoes and make a tropical fruit fondue.
Stage two:
Ice cream lover's delight. Opus to brown sugar.
To swimming again, a pursed lurking of lips
In the academy of the pastoral commonwealth.
We eat at our stations of the sublime. Today which was
A day of discord- you nursed me back to the land of the living.
Stage three:
***
Stage four.
***
Stage five:
As we earn our pageantry to take
Stride on this Earth, and string a
Great bow of eager success among all of us,
You, me, them. While I continue to
Gaze at you. If not dinner, perhaps a
Cup of tea instead.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 4:35 AM UTC
Hallucinating Bureaucracies and auditory Hallucinations : When the voice in your head speaks when you don't want it to, to head's of State not present. I could snuggle in bed if I wanted to, but I've got to orchestrate and reorganize the Clinton dowry. It started outright with trying on a purple, yellow, and blue button down shirt that had Scabies in the sleeve- and now you're all going to know why Mr. and Mrs. Obama don't want to talk to me about potentially increasing livestock traffic across the Americas. I think could practice will follow from such a manure, I mean maneuver. I pick up 10 or so bottles of plastic single-serve water for consumption in my apartheid room. It's awful in here. The gold disappears from the mines, and even the hands I used to work with are blurring up in the twister, and as much as you call or don't call I have no business managing your intentions- only mine. Some barrge of women over thirty. But still there isn't a problem. The river is beginning to flood, and the fishery's stockpile is running low. Maybe we ought to empty out an African mass grave and fill it with blacklists of co-conspirators and then make a drake or a flume out of the narrow walkways between the cities. Then maybe we'll have water to last us through the dry season.------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Where in the world is Sam in Hammond, Can Diego? Forklifting pillars, bribing monkeys, playing with his Mickey Mouse and Michelob, catching the taller, eighteen and up crowd catch the last car riding the rapid drop from Space Mountain through, "It's a Small World After All:"
It's a world of laughter a world of tears, it's a world of hopes and a world of fears. There's so much that we share, that it's time we're aware- it's a small world after all."
And then he takes the biggest gulp of water into his mouth that I've ever seen the man take, and he puts it in a small cooler that's strapped to the back of his calf, and he swears to me that the aeroplanes are going to come loop around, and when they do their glorious water-landing, he and I, or rather, the both of us, will be saved. Saved, hm? I don't even bother sharing insights or my insides. I quickly flash him the most-pod horrific a tryst that irons down a photo of Egon and I back in the Old City, what was it, Chicago, or something that very much sounded like Chicago. Could be totally awesome and I'll chime in that now is the time when we do our work best. That's all. Intrepid,
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 12:42 PM UTC
He weeps his heart, and hangs his head,
He doubles back, and follows her back to bed,
She says, " Some homes are towns and lives, while others wear their homes inside." And he keeps up though he's kept out, the volatile, the sudden frown.
She makes up the cupcakes but they're never vegan are they? No they're never vegan are they?
He makes a gift, and wrings his thumbs, the bubble bath, the tepid tub,
Outside where the rains have gone long, something gives him something strong,
And he picks up where he had left off, the trouble is he doesn't know when to back off, and the cupcakes aren't vegan, sweet and such spectacular, but they really aren't eaten, now that they've been made with eggs. No the cupcakes aren't vegan, though they are quite delicious. And he loves her forever, though he never eats again. No he never eats again. No he never eats again.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:02 PM UTC
When my heart beats black inside my chest, and the days I have are filled with death, and the girls I know won't walk with me, then I have my choice in misery. All the birds have died, and the plains are dry, the skyscrapers aren't lit up at night, and the city's sound sounds like nothing, then I have my choice in suffering. People talk a lot, but they hardly speak, all their voices creak in the summer streets, everybody walks but they're not moving, I try to only observe but then I start screaming.
I ******* hate the way that you look at me, your skin's so ******* clean that it feels ***** your eyes move around but you're not seeing, the way I hurt each day but you say nothing. If I tried to leave you might be happy, so I sit and be and go out at night and cheat. I would break your heart, but it hardly beats. You're my walking dead, my darling zombie.
Each day is second rate, I bore so easily. It's like the day we met ended your pleasantry. I startle all the time, you seem so unaware. I chose you number one, you chose to not even care.
I caressed you once, and undressed you thrice, you abandoned me in the middle of the night. All the time I halved, you had your own account, of every thing we did, it wasn't the right amount. Now I hardly care about the drugs you're on. I'm quoting blasphemy out of every psalm. Even the words I write don't tell half of the truth, about the way I felt chasing after you.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:41 AM UTC
I trace my finger around. With red lipstick on I wear the skin of the pets I had, looking like a marigold shot through the head, my bare skin is barbed in the back. Such trouble and quiet with the wrap-around, the cross-walk, and floral shop as I browse. The white elephant in the upstairs bedroom, is making it hard for every one of us to sleep. With this Africa becomes a disease, that I unwrap from a cotton white sheet. When I breathe life is going good, under the spells of wicked and word. I like to call out in the night, so with no response I can plead for the courage to think; all the suburban philistines try to help me, but I can't tell a joke because I cannot read. Every thing amounts to being fat. Or liquidated in the most pathetic singles party for Karl Lagerfeld.
Numb fingers slur the words as I type telephone numbers that end in threes. I see a notice to be called upon, but it's hard to remember what day it is when your job only pays you in financial advice, "Don't do as I do, but please just do what I say." And I can smell that. The approach that a hunter brews in his midnight solemn cup of tea. Where a voice chimes in while a mouse runs out, dragging the corners of my eyes in a lagging meme, it doesn't do well to even be yourself sometimes, once while traveling I couldn't see. Come that morning I had left my hotel pass inside my favorite pants, black denim toting paint from a ******** shot, a picture that explains my disease.
The fifty inch fan hums an anonymous tune that when I turn quickly towards it becomes this feral baboon. And is it hardly based on fact or is it the illusions and the myths that Christopher Robins struck inside of me. With his griseous hands made of soot and of gouache, that worshipped animals that wear clothes outside. And even sometimes there are z's that transform into other creatures that hum real fast and talk out loud in nursery rhymes, a Whatsit and a Woozel are totally, too much for me. I turn the fan off and lay back down, and fight the world off with hands from another guy, much braver than I who doesn't even have tattoos but he's the top wordsmith from Buckingham. What a beautiful treat and such a magnificent surprise that the elephant lays down to die. Of course that's when my mouth dries up with smoke and my voice turns into the vanilla flavoring that everyone hates, and then too I felt like laying down to die. But I'm not 97 like I had thought I'm quite sure that I'm still alive. The white moon shines into my bedroom window at night and I pretend that I direct for the sky.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:24 AM UTC
Not an amulet, an off white vertebrae; bone.
Brass wire, a loop at one end.
It bends as to make sure this will fit.
A gauge that measures mesmerization,
And we both must get along, but
Not because we're not tough enough:
Most of us aren't soft right yet.
So many stiffs, folly after folly.
The whole carful of loose cadavers,
Dangling, their feet hang with wet snow
And carnage,
Not even musk deer pop up,
They've all gone. Roosting in a parabol,
With X's sprayed to their groins.
Burning pop couples
Doing it like laboratory mice. Capybaras
Hiss, my own burnt blood is also
Flocculating.
Turn the cup upside down and
See the fire's balmy lachrymal opaque
Moss while it does not drip.
This is the story of man you asked me about;
Devoid of a muzzle, fur onto his chest; coarse
Hair in a garland.
It is the God of a tool that buzzes into the night.
A plateau for this most sensible study.
We feel another coming.
And when you awoke, your larval tongue
My eye mush, a song of verse and melancholy.
This half list of greatness, a tally we both wish to see.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:38 AM UTC