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Erica Dec 2014
like this poem
we are unf
Erica Dec 2014
is this how our story ends?
with you forgetting
and me regretting?

is this how our story ends?
with our song not sung anymore,
our rings not worn anymore?

is this how our story ends?
with you and someone new
while i'm stuck in the same old shoe?

is this how our story ends?
i'd hate for it to be
but now you look free
so bad as it is
must i accept this
*it is how it ends
  Dec 2014 Erica
Devon Webb
We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.


We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.
It's worth it though.
Erica Dec 2014
To drown
You don't need water
To suffocate you to death
You don't need the ocean
To drain your every breath

To drown
You just need to feel
Happy and sad and mad
You just need to be
Alone and lost and scared

To drown
In a sea of emotions
To drown
And die and still broken
Erica Dec 2014
i will tattoo
your name
in my heart
like a
beautiful
permanent
scar
  Dec 2014 Erica
Charles Bukowski
I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.

it was the first time I'd
realized
that.
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