#readit
I saw your poem.
Those words of hatred.
I'm not getting the last dance.
Do I care?
Not so much.
You think your
clever use of words hurts me.
Your poetic way with words
used to put me in a trance.
Not anymore.
I tried to steal?
Not so much.
You love her?
Good, I'm glad.
She's one of my best friends.
I would never do that to her.
Go to hell.
You were so kind,
so charming.
I wrote a poem,
you left,
never to return.
Well,
Goodbye.
This goodbye is certainly a good one.
I haven't thought about you
in a long time.
You wrote the poem two months ago.
Two months.
The first week was the only week
I actually cared.
Now?
Not so much.
So,
goodbye old friend.
I hope to never see you again.
But if I do?
Don't say hello.
Don't apologize.
Don't even smile.
Just keep walking.
Walk away and don't look back.
You were able to do it online,
now just do it in real life.
I won't apologize.
I will walk on like you aren't there.
I will let it go.
I will smile to myself.
I will be proud to have let go.
Warning,
you only had one chance.
You think it was me
who ruined the friendship.
It was really you.
You make her happy.
If you hurt her,
I will hurt you.
Her heart is fragile,
don't leave it in pieces.
Did you see my poem?
I hope so.
Read it carefully.
It's all you will get out of me.
Read this too--
Goodbye. Forever.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 8:51 AM UTC
Fallen fools fail to frequent fair fighting flares of the forgetful.
Art is accepting the arid arachnids artless ache of acrid adequacy.
Rarely do the roving raving remorseful reflect on the rotting red realities.
Is it insane to institute instant incentives for impressive inlets of inanity.
Surreal is the subsurface of suckling sick soulless simpletons, such is the sorry state of smooth softened suffering.
How a hardly heard harrowing hail has hindered the helping hands of the hunted herd is hitherto hopeless.
Octal is the orange orchard of offal and organic ordered ornaments.
Regularly reaped is the rare roots of the real right rendered rigging.
Read is remembered as riffraff in regalia of real rites readily removed of retaining remembrance.
Original organs of ordained overblown oafs organically operate in the ocean orientated orifice.
Reckless rousing of rightly ridden rumble racks, a resentment is rarely so robust as real rage.
So I Request Real Recognition From The Gnawing Knowledge,
Such Is My Dark Dearth of Desperation That I Offer This Sacrifice Of My Own Flesh,
She Soars Searing Suffering So Such Simple Snobby Silt ***** My Soul With Her,
I Give You My Dying Daughters Dearth Of Lost Years For
A Moment Of Very Vague Veracious Words.
I Ask Only One Ornery Question,
What Is My Vocation On This Empty Echoing Earth?
Mar 23, 2023
Mar 23, 2023 at 6:36 PM UTC