Think of these playlists
Poems I didn't write
But I wish I had
Most of them are a perfect fit for your
How I love you.
How I see you.
If you are crafted one of these from me,
Music is poetry, poetry my deepest soul,
You have received one of the greatest expressions of love I can give.
Do not take this lightly.
Too often we are given things, ungrateful, or flippant.
Gifts should mean more, not out of obligation. No.
They are loved, crafted or selected from the deepest of hearts.
Or at least they should be.
I love you.
How I miss you,
but your blood....gives me anxiety.
It makes people hate me, I can't stand to be
I can't say I don't miss dancing with you
But it's not much of a party with just the two of us.
No one else is willing to dance for long.
There was a time where you were,
my only friend
and you would smile and take me in your arms while
I sobbed and enjoyed the haze of your being.
I in turn, worshipped you. Even if research, candles and hymns, libations of your own blood and my perfume could hardly be enough.
It's all I have, my lord.
While I miss the roiling, twisting madness of your magnificence
I shouldn't be there.
I want to be, desperately
but I pick up a bottle and look at myself in disgust and shame.
It's not you, it's me.
This is far from a disillusionment of gods.
I will still dance, my lord, just perhaps not as closely as before.
I miss drinking and my lord Dionysus.
I need to stop wishing
We had that bond (again)
You are not capable of depth
You will never (just) be free of your rotten soul
You need to clean it
And it will take time
But perhaps we are just, different
This would be a shame
For I miss your sweet sweet voice
I miss indulging you
Your sage advice
I knew I'd lose you just like
I've lost so many
But it never gets easier
I love the smell of orange most.
It doesn't go well with purple,
but it represents everything I am not.
I make up for my lack of sunshine by wrapping it around me,
a neckerchief in any season.
I cover up the cracks that leak blue, the scent of
the sleepiest lavender.
I'd rather be gold, a heady sharp awakening - compared to the wispy breeze that settles on my shoulders.
I am tired of sleeping when I'd rather be citrus, shining.
No one loves like me
but I write about it anyway.
Even if it's sweet nothings..
to the moon or empty chairs.
I like to think the moon listens
and maybe someday
someone else like me will, too.
We never got to be teenagers together,
because by that time, I was gone.
I needed to be, or I would have been forever
but leaving you behind was painful.
You bullied me, but I held faith that it was just you being a kid.
But we never got to be teenagers,
doing the simple things like sitting next to eachother on the sofa
I wanted to be there after your first kiss, to gossip over boys.
I want to share a drink, a joint, a tattoo, with you.
I do miss everyday...
We never even got to be kids..