#thirdperson
How is it that I am a
skip
hop and a
jump
Away from instant lividity
Instantly
reignited into a frenzy in order to
calm the very frizz
That appears on my toes and fingers
freezing to a
temperature
that only
Celsius could know
Frigid blood in veins yet
with heart boiling in
the tense
of present pain resounding
to an anthem
all but gained.
Dec 18, 2025
Dec 18, 2025 at 9:54 PM UTC
She writes about herself in the third-person because it makes her feel more significant.
Jul 5, 2023
Jul 5, 2023 at 2:58 PM UTC
You are in my written poetry
I portray you as someone I look up to
I sense the feeling you're capable
Of being that person.
You are in my head
Pinpointing the level of anxiety
I get from you, when you tell me you have fantasies of other people.
I portray you as my killer
You killed the most beautiful thing inside me
You wrapped me up in a plastic bag
And sold my heart to the wolves.
I portrayed you as the person
Who lifts me; in reality you brought me to my knees.
I want to see you as the better person,
But that just hasn't happened.
Dec 28, 2019
Dec 28, 2019 at 4:27 AM UTC
Yet
Nobody
Has written
Your biography
And It's always
You
Who have to
Even as
The third person
Jan 3, 2020
Jan 3, 2020 at 6:47 PM UTC
Once upon a time
He called himself
“He”
Not to hurt her
She called herself
“She”
Not to hurt him
That’s how
The story began
That's how
The story ended
Time, back then
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 8:42 PM UTC
Saw her standing on a balcony's ledge, staring down. Swore she could have jumped if it could stop the talking in her head, she's lost contact with herself, "insane" with hatred of self- she's felt the breath of death against her neck since **** had hit the fence- now she's hopping over it , total devotional focus, to hop, to land in the place of older, like greener grass, being sober, to love the one reflected when beauty gets inspected, expected recognition of her faulty symmetrics, civil disobedience creeping up in the rear of her, teetering on the length of the time that takes to make it, from top to bottom, toppling, dropping nonstop, won't stop till her heart stops.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 6:37 AM UTC
He is walking the streets of his mind,
blind to any and all rays of light
peeking through the crack in slight
little flickering beams.
It seems that he will never be
the assembly of feelings that she
called happy.
It is there now and again,
but it is gone before now becomes then.
He walks the path of a thousand other men
but he walks it alone.
He is Spencer Dennison.
Do you feel pity?
Do you feel spite
at the idea that I might
quite possibly
have penned this
for for you to feel sorry for me?
I enjoy attention.
It's a thing I get in rations,
packed in a steel MRE
waiting to be peeled back and basked in
just for the time it takes
to flee back again.
I wrote this
not for you to feel sorry for him.
I wrote this
not for you to try to support him.
I wrote this
why?
Because it's late
and I have nothing better to do
than to create
little save-states in the page.
To fall back on when things are in doubt.
What I get out
of this is the calm of mind
in knowing that I have shouted my plight
into to dead air.
So if no-one ever hears my prayer,
it's not because it was not offered.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 10:20 PM UTC
I guess I write in third person
so I can pretend that my feelings
aren't mine
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 8:30 PM UTC
*Charles told me today—
But don't tell him I said so—
He really likes you.*
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 11:17 AM UTC