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the days in the summer were lovely
the days in the winter were bitter and cold

everyday Im getting a little older
it's getting harder to remember the last night I was sober

I wanted to beg you to come home
that I miss you so much, it hurts, that I need you
my heartbeat is raising whenever I hear your voice
you still drive me crazy, everyday again

falling in love with you over and over
and I cant even imagine what life was like without you
without your laughter, without your touch, your being

I can call you my everything but yet for the world it means nothing
I just need to hear from you that you are mine and only mine
because if you want to be mine I will be yours, forever

young stupid and in love maybe these are the right terms for us
it makes me sad that we can't be ourselves when others are looking

maybe they should close their eyes forever
so it can just be you and me

a tragic story starring you and me
Good, but...
Never good enough.
Out of place,
out of sync-
without rhyme;
and the truth
I've heard
many times:
I
should
not
exist.
But then, I've always known I don't belong, nor should I have an expectation to. Forever outside- to dwell in  nothingness.
The girl inside you think is true, is not who she is, but a reflection of you.
She is not perfect, for perfect is so far out of reach.
But the girl she tries to be, is so not to hear you preach.
Trying to make you happy, while all along she’s crying for disappointing you.
She’s nothing but sad, and heartbroken for all she is, is a disappointment.
Your approval is a token, but for her it’s unspoken.
Not wanting to be left out searching all about…
For something she can do, to hear you say “I’m proud of you!”
Awaiting the day she will rise, but not coming, she’s not even close to being the prize.
The city’s all a-shining
Beneath a fickle sun,
A gay young wind’s a-blowing,
The little shower is done.
But the rain-drops still are clinging
And falling one by one—
Oh it’s Paris, it’s Paris,
And spring-time has begun.

I know the Bois is twinkling
In a sort of hazy sheen,
And down the Champs the gray old arch
Stands cold and still between.
But the walk is flecked with sunlight
Where the great acacias lean,
Oh it’s Paris, it’s Paris,
And the leaves are growing green.

The sun’s gone in, the sparkle’s dead,
There falls a dash of rain,
But who would care when such an air
Comes blowing up the Seine?
And still Ninette sits sewing
Beside her window-pane,
When it’s Paris, it’s Paris,
And spring-time’s come again.
Walking by the shores at night,
Rain splinters the sky,
The sea is slipping,
Out of breaths,
The stars are crying
Watering salty eyes,
My heart aches for what is gone,
Love is a madly tender tear,
I find some comfort hear, tonight,
Lost with trailing moon.
My mind keeps pictures of you up on its walls
                            again
                         ­         and again
I find my thoughts drifting down that river of memory
orbiting around you, like forces of gravity drawn
to the idea of us (if there even is an us)

If I could then I’d lock you outside my brain, leave you out there to rot
in the abyss, where your words couldn't penetrate me
and your lips that work like anesthesia forbidden to numb me again

I won't do you the injustice of romanticizing your imperfections
You're no nebular, you're a black hole, a gaping flaw in creation
Your eyes that held millenniums of history, now hold me no future

You made me forget what it feels to have stability
To not walk out of a room and forget why I left
You make me want to shred the skin you touched
Like a reptile, to become reborn, purified from my past.

There never were any butterflies in your stomach, only parasites
but you fed them to me readily like a disease

So no, I won’t dedicate you another love poem
                 no I want (deserve) better
This isn't what love should be
I’ll write you a poem where the words convulse on the page
and you’ll forget to read it (you always do)
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