"drabbles" poems
1. I'm sorry that I do not believe enough to say i love you.
2. I'm sorry I lied when I said I love you. I never wanted to love you the way you love me.
3. You asked me about my poems and drabbles and who they were about. I'm sorry that my sappy love poems weren't about you. They never were.
4. I'm sorry I never told anyone about us. I knew how much that mattered to you but I didn't like the attention.
5. I'm sorry for all this while that you're stuck with me. I was your source of happiness and yet I drained all ounces of happiness from you.
I'm sorry that I didn't believe in love and all I did was string you along. Maybe things would've been better. Maybe I can't love you because I don't know how to love myself.
But maybe I was wrong and I did love you
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 11:42 PM UTC
I need to write something
No, no you don’t understand
I need to write
I need to prove something
(Though I do not know what it is)
That I’m talented?
That I’m alive?
That despite weeks and weeks
And months and months
Of retreating into the darkest corners of my mind
Giving you only dark, depressing drabbles
If anything
To go by
So despite being well aware
That this piece is going to be
Complete and utter ****
**** that’s hot and moist
Plugged with pine straw and grass
Beneath the glorious writers
Of HP’s feet
I need to make that sacrifice
I am here
I am alive
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 5:09 PM UTC
Writers love other writers
Sympathy and Empathy.
The way an orchestra plays its symphonies
They harmonize with each other
With words woven and sewn together
A place where books are their safe haven
Condensed in pages are feelings that are tirelessly sought
A fellow writer would've captured the thought
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
It almost offends me
when people say
that they're able to release
their innermost thoughts
whenever they write a poem song.
Can we honestly delve
into the depths of our hearts
with a bit of ink
or typed-up words?
Do our thoughts sound the same
when they've been released
from their cave,
their home?
Can we really portray
how we're feeling inside
just by releasing contorted words
or a twisted phrase?
Our thoughts will always remain enigmatic
because maybe they're not meant to be heard
by people who can't express
how they're truly feeling inside.
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 3:41 PM UTC
they never talk about the trees
with history so shaped by poetry,
tales of the aesthetic and also
the way in which the light bands
across the delicacy of skin along her neck,
how could they neglect the trees?
the source of which material you deface
litter with your soliloquies and your...
your scrappings of failed attempts to...
how could you not devour them?
with all your grand metaphors and
your passing, blindly romantic drabbles
the pen is mightier than the sword
so turn your weapon towards
your blank canvas battlefield
and write of the trees
revel in the symphony
note the calibre
of such leaves as they thrive
and not just fly but soar
oh, and recall the aching;
the bark can only withstand the wind
for so very long
before the unstoppable force
renders the immovable object
a hopeless nothing on the forest floor
tell me,
if you fell so completely
with not a soul around to witness you
did you ever really fall at all?
Jul 21, 2017
Jul 21, 2017 at 1:23 AM UTC