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#romanticmetaphor
If you want to count on me, let me keep it a buck, my dear I’ll keep it a hundred with you; I’m a man they'll call a dog, but my bark stays humble… maybe that’s what happens when you grow up tied to a tree with a bark harder than yours. Yet even from the roots, I can see the rise of you — that quiet hill I keep climbing. And really, she's got those good heels; a hill-figure climb, always reaching for the high places of her heart. _And me?_ I’m somewhere round the corner, still circling for love like a man looking for a good parking in a neighbourhood that never has space. “Oh **** you mind if I park?” But my tyre already blew from driving loops around her — round and round, like my courage wearing thin. Crack the window a little — I know that’s your heart. I know it gets smoky in there; you’ve kissed people with your lungs before, now you're leaving me breathless just watching you breathe. And the plans… oh, the Plan B’s, have expired. The backup plans I kept saving for “one day,” regrets for the morning-after; for taking too long to take your hand, we’re starting to become “old friends,” a phrase that tastes like dust and a lot of missed chances. But if I’d held your gaze a little longer, maybe the truth would’ve spilled that secret spark you hid so well. Maybe you could’ve liked me back. Or maybe those feelings sprinted off when I stood still too long. Love is a play, and I don’t follow the script so well; I miss hints like a man who can’t even spot a stain on a white page. Still, let's write a different love story — a corporate romance, slide-deck chemistry. Share your screen with me; I’ll screenshot the moments where I almost look brave, the scenes where I almost shoot my shot and don’t shake. If it’s even worth a shot. My bullets are a little dull, a little rusty — loaded with the breathless hope of a hopeless romantic trying to aim for love without breaking his own heart.
0
Dec 2, 2025
Dec 2, 2025 at 5:22 PM UTC
OddOdysseyPoet
From The Breath of a Broken Heart
If you want to count on me, let me keep it a buck, my dear I’ll keep it a hundred with you; I’m a man they'll call a dog, but my bark stays humble… maybe that’s what happens when you grow up tied to a tree with a bark harder than yours. Yet even from the roots, I can see the rise of you — that quiet hill I keep climbing. And really, she's got those good heels; a hill-figure climb, always reaching for the high places of her heart. _And me?_ I’m somewhere round the corner, still circling for love like a man looking for a good parking in a neighbourhood that never has space. “Oh **** you mind if I park?” But my tyre already blew from driving loops around her — round and round, like my courage wearing thin. Crack the window a little — I know that’s your heart. I know it gets smoky in there; you’ve kissed people with your lungs before, now you're leaving me breathless just watching you breathe. And the plans… oh, the Plan B’s, have expired. The backup plans I kept saving for “one day,” regrets for the morning-after; for taking too long to take your hand, we’re starting to become “old friends,” a phrase that tastes like dust and a lot of missed chances. But if I’d held your gaze a little longer, maybe the truth would’ve spilled that secret spark you hid so well. Maybe you could’ve liked me back. Or maybe those feelings sprinted off when I stood still too long. Love is a play, and I don’t follow the script so well; I miss hints like a man who can’t even spot a stain on a white page. Still, let's write a different love story — a corporate romance, slide-deck chemistry. Share your screen with me; I’ll screenshot the moments where I almost look brave, the scenes where I almost shoot my shot and don’t shake. If it’s even worth a shot. My bullets are a little dull, a little rusty — loaded with the breathless hope of a hopeless romantic trying to aim for love without breaking his own heart.
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It’s a curse — or maybe it’s a blessing. It’s not my place to judge — I’d only be biased, so I let you judge for me. A cup filled with water, add a little more and it will overflow, spill every which way. I’m a cup, overflowing with love, spilling in every direction, sometimes landing in harsh hands, promising eternity, but those hands leave once their thirst is quenched. So I wait, a full cup left untouched in an empty castle, hoping for a king. Is it a curse, believing in a throne no one wants to sit on? Going through phony princes, pretending to be kings! Is it a blessing, to still hold this much love and not let it rot — or is it a curse?
0
Jul 11, 2025
Jul 11, 2025 at 11:12 AM UTC
abyss
Curse or Blessing?
It’s a curse — or maybe it’s a blessing. It’s not my place to judge — I’d only be biased, so I let you judge for me. A cup filled with water, add a little more and it will overflow, spill every which way. I’m a cup, overflowing with love, spilling in every direction, sometimes landing in harsh hands, promising eternity, but those hands leave once their thirst is quenched. So I wait, a full cup left untouched in an empty castle, hoping for a king. Is it a curse, believing in a throne no one wants to sit on? Going through phony princes, pretending to be kings! Is it a blessing, to still hold this much love and not let it rot — or is it a curse?
Continue reading...
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