It’s fine, really.
I’ll swallow down
My feelings,
Been holding onto them
Just way too long.
I am tired of waiting
For you to finally
Be ******* ready.
It’s time to move on.
Please never call me,
Don’t text me too.
I’ve learnt my lesson,
The past belongs to past,
And I belong to you.
Just kidding,
It rhymed slightly better.
I don’t, although
I always wanted to.

Let's play hide and seek.
I’ll pretend as if I am not
Into that kind of ****,
As if I am really not
Into relationships,
As if I am as hard as stone,
As if I am far to reach.
Please seek me though.
I’m not as tough as I seem.

It’s actually so toilsome
Pretending I'm a real stone,
I am so much more like ice.
I seem extremely cold
And hard to break.
But really you can smash me
Without trying much,
And you'll feel me melting,
At very slightest touch.

But I’ll pretend I'm not about it,
Stones don't have feelings.
I am here to protect myself
From melting down completely,
I've got to keep pretending
To be a real hard stone,
I don’t belong to people.
Stones don't.
But really all I am thinking:

"Please, seek me, though!"

You’ve been up every night
Watching soap opera stuff.
You don’t even know
What is that crap about.

You’ve been waiting,
Your phone is on charge,
Just in case it decides
To unexpectedly die.

Please, just go to sleep,
It’s been months of denial.
He won’t call.
You’re no longer his

Drunk
2 am
Dial.

It used to be ******* real,
Now you kind of fit in my
Rhymes.

Nothing personal baby,
Just still some leftovers of lust.

It used to be ******* close
To how they describe feeling
‘Love’.

Now you’re nothing,
But the realest ghost of my past.

I've planned on writing
A love poem
But I can't focus.
Since I woke up today
Been feeling extra *****.

I could’ve written on
Something to do with feelings
Or go on about how
Saint Valentine's day
Is not for me because I am single.

But I am feeling way too
*****.
Been thinking really *****
Things
Entire freaking morning.

Is this even a poem?
I am not too sure anymore.
I mean it sort of rhymes.
All I am sure about
Is that i am feeling
Really
*****.

I enjoy feeling scars on my heart,
Scratching old and the very new ones.

My best friend says I’m out of my mind,
As I am sipping on 8th glass of wine.

I’ve just googled, is that “masochism”?
Can we please call it something else?

That’s my hobby, I’m a collector of scars.
I bet you’ve got some really strange ones.