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"engraining" poems
Pen to paper, the ink soaks. Dead. Scratching assaults the ears; curse their successes, To the back of the mind a lone idea regresses. Assessment. Assessing? My political skills? A half-formed venting, though calms. I shift in my chair. Every detail grotesque, I shift my attention To the blank face of my enemy and my saviour. It must have been ten minutes. Twenty? No, two. Dragging and dragging, yet engraining in my mind. My kingdom for distraction. I push back my chair, and sleep.
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Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 2:47 PM UTC
Words
I am done writing love poems Done pouring my starving heart into a never ending buffet of possibility Optimism has never been a specialty of mine Therefore I can never seem to pinpoint the positives Or any kind of genuine reality Only uncertainty And minor cracks in the foundation I am skilled in hanging on to breaking rope With the mindset that it will hold Too many times have I unknowingly tied my own noose With over analyzed thoughts My soul is always eager To grab at whatever arms shoot out towards me Justifying the flaws in their grip With the only alternative being seclusion I used to avoid solidarity For fear that isolation was a trap to being made undesirable I now know this is myth That being alone does not destroy your chances at finding love Love is a term that I have never correctly defined I have spelled it out on countless occasions Unaware that my definitions were unsound Romanticising the blatant errors in every episode Believing that love was supposed to hurt Engraining it into muscle memory I have hurled myself towards black holes expecting nothing less than escape Only to find that everything has an ending From it all I have learned That happiness through another can not be created with metaphors And a sense of hope That it can only be made with sincerity Therefore I am through with writing love poems Through with throwing sentences at people like lassos You cannot make someone love you With words You can only incite it So I am done writing love poems Until I find someone Willing to write me A novel.
0
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 3:38 AM UTC
Novel
I am done writing love poems Done pouring my starving heart into a never ending buffet of possibility Optimism has never been a specialty of mine Therefore I can never seem to pinpoint the positives Or any kind of genuine reality Only uncertainty And minor cracks in the foundation I am skilled in hanging on to breaking rope With the mindset that it will hold Too many times have I unknowingly tied my own noose With over analyzed thoughts My soul is always eager To grab at whatever arms shoot out towards me Justifying the flaws in their grip With the only alternative being seclusion I used to avoid solidarity For fear that isolation was a trap to being made undesirable I now know this is myth That being alone does not destroy your chances at finding love Love is a term that I have never correctly defined I have spelled it out on countless occasions Unaware that my definitions were unsound Romanticising the blatant errors in every episode Believing that love was supposed to hurt Engraining it into muscle memory I have hurled myself towards black holes expecting nothing less than escape Only to find that everything has an ending From it all I have learned That happiness through another can not be created with metaphors And a sense of hope That it can only be made with sincerity Therefore I am through with writing love poems Through with throwing sentences at people like lassos You cannot make someone love you With words You can only incite it So I am done writing love poems Until I find someone Willing to write me A novel.
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