"forgettable" poems
my breath is blue
cold and forgettable
in this dark room
and with my eyes closed
composed of a mind
and all its follies,
that I cannot switch off;
i am lost, yes,
bless'd with a life
i never would have
known otherwise,
of minutes, mountains and
stones, wise men; a home
and sun rise,
here on this rock
me and so many like me
will die, pretending we
never would,
consuming blood and wood
even burning the forest down
'tis his kingdom, filled with
people bad and good,
some mad and filled with
scars and broken days
then there's that who
has no need for a place,
some wear stars and some
wear no face, some are meant
to die, some meant to stay
some go away never to
come back, some find
grey days soothing as they
pass by, some live
in good-byes, and some dye
themselves, some don't cry,
some won't die, and we'd
watch them live forever,
whilst we break our lies,
i live the lies too, yes,
but that's more bless'd, in
this storm of illusion,
outside this dark room
where i bleed away bits of
me, everytime i step out,
loud noises and the clock,
to break me down,
silence louder than words,
empty air for me to drown
trapped in a circle 'round
my neck,
eyes to dream me a crown,
and a mind for the countless
worthless things i've found
gagged and bound,
in the deepest layers
miles deeper than my skin
sinking, and inking my
breath blue.
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 2:23 PM UTC
at age five,
her bath is full of bubbles
and happiness.
yellow ducks floating
on the surface,
make her young soul
happy.
at age ten,
her bath is not
full of bubbles.
she does not take baths
anymore.
she showers now,
because it's faster,
and forgettable,
just like life should be.
at age fifteen,
her bath is not full of bubbles,
again.
but now, she sits in the tub,
only dull water surrounding
her body.
on the surface there
are no more yellow ducks,
they are now replaced by flowers,
which are ripped out from the hard ground along with the root,
*just like she was ripped
out from her silly dream,
along with her insane mind.*
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 7:12 PM UTC
Dinner table,
Bowls of light,
Stage fright, lilies,
No appetite,
Dark absences nibbling
Right through my eyes
Like black rabbits pulled
Out of Truman Show skies,
Provoking the question
From those sat up front –
Is this a trick you’re pulling -
Is this one of your stunts?
But no amount of smiling
Will do –
Nod all you like.
They’re onto you.
Christmas Eve,
Sister’s house,
Black eye,
Ulcerated mouth.
Divinely tickled-
By Miss World!
A pinecone and mistletoe
Christmas hurled
Down en suite toilets
Porcelain pink,
My face makes love
To the bathroom sink.
The most squalid Little Lord
In the county, me,
Summer blooms hold
No charms for me,
So I try to apply my
Favourite smile
And travel a few more
Country miles
To a chemist that doesn’t
Know my face.
I browse a bit
(Condoms, spectacles case)
Then I try to
Convince the pharmacist
That I need two
Bottles of
Gee’s Linctus.
The cruelest boyfriend
I ever had
Gives head to a toilet roll
And his fingerpads
Are bordello yellow
From greased nicotine,
This ******* in Primrose
Exhales smoke in a stream,
And I try to remember what
Buttercup said,
His baby’s breath whispers
Wilt in my head,
Something about purity
Something about loss
Something about cleanliness
Something about God
Something about something
That I should tick off as regrettable,
But one flower can make everything
So *******
Forgettable.
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
I cant tell you how much the hush hush hurts,
the gaps,
[the deliberately left blanks]
the silences that make me scared of saying words out loud.
It's the switching of meanings that does it,
all the tip toe awkwardness
the swift, unconscious side steps.
It's the whole long stretch of silence,
the whole deliberate
accidental
hush hush of something I never even knew the name of.
It's the casual,
forgettable
drops of slights
that I'm still turning
over and over.
It's a hush hush never intended to be malicious but
the quiet twists and tears
and so I can never tell you how much the hush hush hurts
because the silence keeps me hush hushed too.
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 4:12 AM UTC
By day he wore a face of stone,
a man at work, a man at home.
Mid-tier, mid-forties, fading fast,
a shadow built to never last.
Unseen, unseen, the hours crawled,
his name half-heard, his voice forestalled.
Reliable. Invisible.
Forgettable. Admissible.
But night —
night gave him another skin,
a grinning mask, a skeleton grin.
Blurry selfies, pumpkin puns,
cheap delights for midnight ones.
And they laughed.
They saw.
He mattered more
than the man he’d left behind the door.
She answered louder than the rest,
late-twenties, lonely, dispossessed.
Her laughter quick, replies too fast,
his irony returned as gospel, cast.
“I know this isn’t you,” she said.
“I want the man who hides instead.”
He recoiled.
Deleted.
Ghosted.
Fled.
But silence is a mask that turns,
and absence is a fire that burns.
3:33, the phone alight,
a skeleton meme each waiting night.
3:33, a plastic hand,
a note enclosed: You’ll understand.
3:33, the offering grows —
a pumpkin smashed, its seeds exposed.
Her love became a ritual rhyme,
his jokes became a curse in time.
“You don’t get to leave,” she swore,
“You owe me you, forevermore.”
And he —
the man who sought the crowd,
who wanted laughter, not too loud,
who craved the gaze but feared the weight,
found every mask could seal his fate.
No one is innocent here, no one.
Not the trickster, not the one undone.
He wore deception like a shield,
she made obsession her battlefield.
Now only one mask still remains —
cheap plastic grin through windowpanes.
Spoopy, childish, still, absurd,
yet sharper than his final word.
The curtains gap, the silence bends,
a tilted grin that never ends.
And he knows, beneath the grin so slight:
her mask will never leave the night.
Sep 22, 2025
Sep 22, 2025 at 4:41 AM UTC
you’re a bad girl
a party girl
fuelled by drugs and alcohol
an ornament
forgettable disposable
just another
one night stand
Aug 19, 2021
Aug 19, 2021 at 11:18 PM UTC
Trudging along.
Out, about, always around.
Always within.
Yet somehow without.
The Outsider.
Forever he is around.
Eternally quenching a thirst
Eternal is his drought.
The Outsider.
A part of many,
Apart from the many
He's forever found
Wherever, whenever.
Forever forgettable as the ground.
The Outsider.
Present as day when he's about.
When gone he's an echo.
An echo of a distant,
Long forgotten sound.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 1:15 PM UTC
Perhaps we were both waiting
for words to come from the speechless;
with our hands outstretched, feeling
for some infinite nebula we called love.
I liked the way you saw form in the formless,
a dreamer from the sleeping,
and the ghost from the living
(But the real ghosts and dreamers were us)
Sea-sorrow would sink our ships of wander-lust
And we'd rebuild with planks of heartache;
new sails of empathy and a hull big enough
for everything else in between
Some moments were better than others,
Some forgettable, others memorable
your lips, my eyes, your skin, my skies;
the cavities of silence in our conversations.
I remember, when you tried to blink away the sea-change
Rubbing waves of apathy, so endless
and unrelenting, from your face
Watching you fight the tempest moved me
and my lungs took in so much sin
It made my bones ache with guilt;
the fire of my desires, the prison of my soul.
Perhaps we were both waiting
for the proverbial hand, that infinite warmth,
to reach down from the heavens.
The hand that moulded us;
the hand we slighted for love.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 3:07 PM UTC
Never again will I let myself be someone's back up plan.
I was a back burner, in the shadows, half forgotten back up plan. The last thing to be thought about, and the person to be considered least. I was a placeholder to keep the loneliness and isolation at bay.
All I wanted in life was to be made to feel wanted. To finally be able to claw my way up the priority list. Maybe that's what it was.
I was not a priority.
I was nice to have around. Convenient.
I mean, distance, seperation, empty promises... I took all of it. But not only did I take it, I returned it with love, patience, loyalty. I gave time, money, energy.
Everything I had.
Everything that made me who I was as a person.
In fact, I gave so much that I lost who I was. I forgot what it was to be...me.
So when he left, when I was no longer convenient to him, he took everything with him. My laughter, my joy, my ability to find the silver lining in any situation. He took my faith, my trust, my belief in others...
But, he did leave me with something at least.
He left me with a shattered life. He left me with trust issues. With depression, and anxiety attacks at work. He left me with more tears than can be counted and endless empty tissue boxes. He left me with a shell of who I once was.
And he was gone.
I guess when it's not a priority, it's easy to leave. When the one person who sacrificed everything she had...who gave every piece of herself.
But, HE was his priority.
So no. Never again. I will never be a back pocket, third place, maybe one day girl. I will never let myself beg for affection and love again. I will NEVER be made to feel unwanted. Forgettable. Disposable.
I want to be wanted. I want to be THE priority. Because when you truly love someone, they will always be your priority.
Otherwise, you never loved them at all.
Just the convenience of them.
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 9:21 PM UTC
prophet tongue with
stabbing perceptions
i gave him my name
while in bed.
soft white curtains
though still chamber thick
cold steel hands
and the room sliced into pieces
by morning light
but haunted by night sounds
crept into open wounds of the heart
chills.
his hand
resting on my thigh while he snores
summer bruised and adventurous
though callous youth
with his unbandaged scabbed knee
skating last night.
moment forgotten in the carride
but a stone monument staring
at me on the kitchen counter.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 7:32 AM UTC
The Real Poets Here
are small craft
sailing between the narrows of crack'd lines,
employ the spyglass and luck to you,
for them to find
their voyages do not widen the chasm of waste,
yawning greater now by propped up boasts of
ugly shipowners who sin by commission,
national ***** crowing of the greatest length of their prow,
thinking that is a measure of prowess,
their tubs,
all but empty wordy new container ships,
that are forever lost at sea,
even before leaving port
they,
the real poets,
are the quiet lost lot,
a troop of forgettable ordinary Marines,
the sailors in the engine room toiling,
exploring cartographers ***** from the ****** crafting struggle,
looking to discover unmapped,
invisible poles,
East and West
opening up new passages,
within us,
with new passages
when called to arms,
the real poets
spill fresh ***** fluids from within the heart and mind borne,
upon the blank spaces,
they stain us with the grasping gasps of their sight insided
fertile are the pastures
where they lay low modest lay thinking,
amidst the splendor in the grass
of them
I
proudly will ever boast,
hold them close and ever nameless,
but deep inscribed inside of me
*Ah,
the real poets keep me
whole within the
ever smaller white purity of this narrow space
that has lost the struggle
to contains the
unceasing ever spawning black letter'd oceans and navies of
repetitive sad, sadly repetitive,
puerile singsong cant
that never sings,
can't never please,
but trends to the masses madly
dewdrops of tears,
are my own trees felled,
an acknowledgement that
when I read their unintended homages to humankind,
that when realized,
they speak with great respect,
all quietly scream this whisper...
all this,
that I have written,
and will yet to write,
this is all,
to give
greater glory to all human ability
whose
sole purposed to fill us,
wrench us from our lackadaisical comfort,
or urgently comfort us when none else can,
these are my friends,
the real poets here*
god keep you well
my trite words insufficient
so I gift you
some words worthy from
Wordsworth
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 3:29 AM UTC
I have a few,
like burning a good future.
Losing love
loving lots
spiraling in confusion.
Blinding rage,
petty sayings
a quiet vocal range.
Lackadaisical,
completely forgettable,
earn below the average joe.
I write,
I draw,
both subpar
I can't drive a car.
I can hide in a smile
lie with my eyes
and never really cry.
Overweight,
out of shape,
hoodie shaped,
never took a family break.
Mnm wants me to,
but never said I'd go far.
Won't ever date.
Usually believes in fate,
not holy gates.
my skillset so far.
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 9:28 AM UTC
Alright,
I'm standing
in a rain soaked field
looking due North at the
stacked glorious nothing.
And the vapid brands that
stamped and covered these walls
are an echo of their vibrant
former hues.
The people drive round
and down trying to get
to their brown house maybe.
The parking lots are planar
grey graves, commemorating
the former lives of the
ghosts of shopping malls past
dying ghosts of shopping malls past.
Right on, I'm
walking through the Holocaust
memorial with my coat buttoned
to my throat. The dying lights of
the Sharper Image really makes
a mockery of what they left.
There is the shell of a Banana Republic.
There's Old Navy, Gamestop, Footlocker
Shoes. This is the food court where I hit
on that girl who ended up being as
forgettable as a food court meal.
Okay,
now I'm
looking out just one mile south at the
excavators pushing the dirt and the rock
Digging into land bought by the City,
to build up a new store or twenty
This new real estate is assured to
bring "vibrancy" to our local economy.
Those old stores aren't the right location
so let's just leave, they never existed and
a single family of mallards swim is
circles in Yorkshire Lake. Calmly watching
as the engines get closer, not really expecting
their time is over to bring in the future of
the ghosts of shopping malls past.
Another ghost of shopping malls past.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
Better natured today than yesterday,
smelling less like cigarettes and more
like laundry detergent, you sit across
from your therapist at the bar and
ask for one more boilermaker.
You say, How do you desire what you already possess?
And your therapist says, Don't go down that drunk.
That's a bad drunk.
You're in a floral print A-line dress, one
you bought from your sister-in-law.
She's doing one of those multilevel marketing things
and though her Facebook posts make you want
to suicide yourself, she's happy and independent
and at home with her kids. Despite these lukewarm
feelings, you harbor some resentment as you finger
and thumb a seam that's already coming undone.
Sloane. Your husband keeps mentioning a woman
at the office named Sloane. You're at the bar,
almost alone, and promised yourself
you wouldn't think about Sloane. But here you are.
Sloane in a pencil skirt and stockings. Sloane
with a fresh ****** energy, the kind you can't
seem to summon, and you wonder why ***
is such an important thing. It's so brief,
forgettable, full of abject compromise.
*** is an inherently violent act, don't you think?
You say to the therapist.
If your therapist hears you, he doesn't respond.
You don't repeat the question.
You watch yourself broadcast on the TV above the bar.
They're commenting on your hair and your arms
and going on and on about your likability.
Your therapist changes the mood. It's 6:30.
He gives the place a nighttime feel.
He kills a row of lights and turns on the
colored bulbs, the blues and greens.
The TV is turned down. The music is turned up.
This is what you've been waiting for, the lights, the music.
There's an hour before anyone really shows up. You can
close your eyes and drift.
Two or three drinks pass. A couple walks in.
You have your therapist put in for an Uber.
Maybe I've been asking the question the wrong way, you say.
Oh yeah? the therapist says.
Yeah. Maybe the question should be reversed.
Maybe the question should be
how do you remain desirable to the objects you possess?
That seems like a lot of work. Seems like you'd have no
sense of self. You'd always be bending.
I've been a plus one for a long time.
You say bending. But I wouldn't be
doing anything new. I already do all these things.
But I see them as a compromise. I'm just trying
to reframe, you know?
Why? your therapist asks.
You open your mouth and find no words. You smile. You say you've had too much. You're rambling. You're sorry. You better go.
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 12:15 PM UTC
Words are meaningless
and forgettable
Feelings are fleeting
and unreliable
Presents get old and worn out
People change
from friends to strangers
And change is inevitable
Nothing remains the same
Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 8:19 AM UTC
i’m drowning in new york city.
i want to die, again.
always! why is it like this?
i hate everyone; i want my ****** dramatic burlington life and friends back.
her, him, those two, even them…
i want it back.
i wanna be no one.
i wanna be everyone.
i;m full of emotions that i don’t want because everything is so different except for them.
no matter what i do the doom and gloom is always there.
i wanna change my name
i wanna get a dog—auggie or esme, a red border collie—and flee to the south.
I WANNA DRINK MYSELF TO DEATH.
i see these visions of a stable, happy, healthy version of myself but i also see these visions of me literally not making it past age 21.
i’m eternally stuck on self destructing.
but why?
why!
everything is good but it’s never enough.
i’m never enough, it’s never enough, he’s never enough (whoever he is at any given moment)
sam says he’ll fly me back to santa cruz and my insanity says do it but the small semblance of “morals” i still possess tell me not to…
only because of my parents. because of joe.
i don’t want to hurt them.
i don’t want to hurt anyone. but i’m hurting. always. forever. unless i’m drunk. no, wait…even when i’m drunk. i learned that the hard time this last run.
but life is meaningless (words are meaningless and forgettable) and time is a flat circle
blah blah blah
i’ve been here before
i’ll be here again
everything i do i’ll do over and over til i die.
if i don’t get drunk anytime soon i will eventually.
eternal return; the emo version of destiny.
remember when caroline myss’ book told me my highest potential was “victim”?
i’ll be drowning forever.
i’d rather be drowning in absinthe than drowning in aa meeting coffee.
i ache at the beauty of the world; the beauty which i will never achieve or be a part of.
i cry and i cry and i cry.
i want to be beautiful and pure but it’s all so dark.
all the people i’ve loved and who love me…i weep and i weep and i weep.
i can’t breathe fully; why do i wish i could not breathe at all?
i look back at all my pasts as if they were yesterday, and yet they all feel as if i’d made them up entirely.
disconnected and yet fully involved with each and every era of my evolution…
and yet i swear, i haven’t truly changed a bit.
the details change—the scenery, the faces, the dreams…
but all the emotions…all the thoughts…they stay the same.
“i won’t change, i’ll stay the same—darling, fade away…”
fading & falling & then blooming for a single lovely night
time is a flat circle.
i ache, i weep, i cry.
i naively hold onto the hope that someday…someday i’ll be okay.
please, god.
i have to be okay.
i have to turn off the bon iver.
i’m just trying to breathe.
maybe someday.
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 1:27 PM UTC
The transparent roof covered her from sudden precipitation
Ice pellets pelting the ground around as she waited for the bus
The shufflers and grumblers huddled in the booth for cover share
Riddled with cold holes from liquid ***********
Look at them, she thought
Untold stories in a crowd
Grey figures among the concrete and the puddles
Blank pages thickening unread novels
Returning home to stagnant plots and forgettable characters
On the auto she scanned the library for research-relevant titles
A fairy tale cuddled publicly, all lips and hands and smiles
An anthology with stained sections and shredded, well-worn binding
Scribbled frantically to transfer himself to more unpublished page
Give up, she wanted to scream
Paper dies and no one reads
No longer did she believe in hidden literary gems
Far too many friends had rushed their tales
Conclusions writ in sharpie slop
Conclude she had in pencil but the writing hand would never stop
Not for cramps of authoring nor material that she lacked
Not until the cover closed
From which there was no flipping back
Perhaps I am an article, she thought
Meant to be short and skimmed
A brief point to be made and greater issue slapped within
She wondered something dreadful then, a tremor in her bones
She never understood the other chapters, stories, poems
Reflecting in her epilogue, would she even know her own?
My pen was never full
I am illiterate
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 10:40 AM UTC
Infancy, not remembered
Newborns with original sin
Mother is a vessel
Baptism should come later in
Life
Waves of temptation
Bring the proud to decay
The divine is given to evil men
Who value Greek gods and prey
Upon life
Racing against the depths
Of unforgivable time
We push death out
Of our minds
With true love
The stormy *********** of human life-
Wonderful and forgettable
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 11:09 AM UTC
I want to write a bad poem
A cringe worthy, generic, forgettable poem
Maybe something along the lines of...
...your bruised arms around me
left a hole where my heart should have been....
That was a good first attempt at bad, I reckon.
I shall litter said poem with words I found in a thesaurus,
(iridescent, luminous, diabolical, sacrilegious, egregious etc.)
and elements of nature,
(infinite blue skies, bubbling starfish pond, burnt autumn leaves)
and vague ****** references,
(satin bedsheets, steamy phone booths, glistening skin)
and unremarkable idiosyncrasies of past lovers
(you always filled your pockets with loose change;
you always peeled the apple bottom-up;
you always blahd the blooh blah with your blah-like personality)
and lastly,
but most importantly,
the stray allusions to a life of tortuous heartache and unfulfilled dreams.
Zzzzzzzzzzz
Sep 10, 2010
Sep 10, 2010 at 5:18 PM UTC
They say I’m darkness
Scowl carved into marble face
Blue veins twisting in wrists
Rainy day eyes
And fingers made for pianos and cigarettes
They say I’m misery
Black clothing on pale skin
Nails filed into knives
Lip caught between teeth
Family vacations in cemeteries
He said I’m not the type of girl people look twice at
Forgettable like a forest fire
Beautiful like a dead baby bird
He was trying to be romantic
They say I’m lonely
Poor girl
Always alone
Smile and join us
We need a charity project
They say I’m pity
Brows perpetually furrowed
Lungs perpetually constricting
Sweaty palms glued to walls
They have the nerve to fee sorry for me
Someone once told me
I looked like a tornado
Ripping through the hallways at school
A natural disaster
Racking up a body count
I wonder how many people I’ve made cry
They say I’m intimidation
This noose around my neck scares them
A fashion statement
With my fangs bared and a stare that can ****
I walk
They say I’m music
The sound of high heels on pavement
A broken string on a violin
An angel that was never taught
How to play the harp
Shattered halo at its feet
They say I’m pain
Menstrual cramps squeezing the life out
Of a thirteen year old girl
Blood on underwear
Blood under fingernails
Blood running down thighs
They say I am blood
A gory mess
Scars like tattoos
Scrapped knees like badges
They say I’m darkness
A shadow
Engulfing the world
They need me
To appreciate the light
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 7:20 PM UTC
Don’t you
Don’t you dare
Don’t you dare give up on me.
I am helpless. I am flawed. I am undeserving.
But I am here.
I am one of us.
Don’t you
Don’t you dare
Don’t you dare push me aside.
I can be a ghost. I can be a fly on the wall.
But I am steadfast.
I am a sphinx who cannot be moved.
Don’t you
Don’t you dare
Don’t you dare ignore me.
I am faceless. I am unwanted. I am forgettable.
But I have presence. I have substance.
I exist.
Don’t you
Don’t you dare
Don’t you dare betray me.
I am shameful. I’ve made mistakes.
But I deserve trust.
I don’t want to turn to resignation.
Don’t you
Don’t you dare
Don’t you dare forget about me.
I am invisible. I fade to black.
But I am a person.
And I want to be remembered.
Don’t you
Don’t you dare
Don’t you dare ever stop loving me.
I am incapable. I have walls. I am scared.
But I don’t want to be empty.
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 9:12 AM UTC
*“O thou invisible spirit of wine,
if thou hast no name to be known by,
let us call thee devil!”-William Shakespeare*
It's cold outside and colder in here
Under the surprising privacy
of a blaring crowd
I gleefully lose myself
Put on my pseudo-smile
and talk to my pseudo-friends.
Maybe even forget it.
Forget that I feel like a set of floating eyes
Forget that we're all mounds of flesh and hair
Forget
Forget you all
My eyes are brick walls and fence posts
And I am opening the gate to all in sight
I watch my ethos come crashing down
with every increasingly true glance
of yet another Siren.
Only under the blare and blur
of that frozen house
Could I have ever mistaken formality
(or the lack of)
for some sort of kindness or legitimacy.
I've nothing to say to you
but my mouth keeps moving
I've no joy to give to you
but my face keeps smiling
Curse the fate of the hidden one
destined to reveal himself
under most forgettable circumstances
I didn't remember much,
but let us be honest:
when the sun rises
(as it also does)
and your burning eyes long
for lost innocence and vitality
The air will pulse and the room will echo
but I will be gone:
and I'm taking your memory of me
as a parting gift.
Feb 24, 2010
Feb 24, 2010 at 3:32 PM UTC
Chisel me away
I've given you the hammer and all my weak points
So you start
With little strength starting with all my ligaments and joints
You don't tear them
Very precise and careful like you know exact what you're doing
I should've learned from the past
Even though everyone tells and teaches not to take it with you
How can i forget when its in repetition and tied to the strings on my shoes
I have adapted to the hurt
Or lack there of
The sight of you doesn't make me sick anymore
Just an itch in the back of my throat that i still can't stand
You didn't rip out my heart or make me question who i am
You just simply made me feel like i wasn't worth it
Or anything at all
Dirt beneath your feet
I've dug through every inch of my body and ripped out your disease
Burned the bridge that connected our hearts and minds
I hope you do the same
As methodically and perfect as me
Because when you're digging through old love notes i don't want you to feel a thing when you find
Any residue of my feelings
Because they were a mistake
A mistake not so grave
You weren't the best or the worst
Just somewhere in the middle
Very forgettable
In all you're insecure self loathing beauty
You know my nature and all i stand for
A deliberate betrayel that i seen from a mile away
The itch is gone
And so are you
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 5:56 AM UTC
She had that passive presence
Like the ticking sound of a clock
Sometimes you might notice her
Most often at times you do not
Like a wallflower, she is
You notice her on the wall
But then you get use to her
And don't care if she's there at all
As if she is just forgettable
You can't help it if you forget
She is use to it, it's understandable
It still hurts her nonetheless
Nov 25, 2018
Nov 25, 2018 at 6:37 PM UTC
In the midst of everything
I linger and stare
at pallor stranger
passing by
and I gather thoughts
with eager ease;
hungry prey
with moistly lips
Awaiting on some lonely stroll
with woman-hood not far behind
and look upon her nightly walk
her path I follow with gazing stare
Better days, her beauty speaks;
returning from some horrid dream
of young fantasy at home she left
longing to be with shining gleam
in my stranger twinkling eye
Not knowing that our paths will cross
she does not weep for love that was
but dreams lightly of love anew
When I pass with tender step
from staring silent on my stoop
I hunger lust forevermore
and wildly I shall proceed
Succumb to me my little bird
like melody on palisade,
and sing me songs of kingly halls
that echo deep in eternal crag
In darkness feast I shall on her
in waking dream I shall become
until too late the deed is done
in nightmare lover's hands lay still
Oft these thoughts of wanton things
that tend to drive my waxing dreams
waning not this horrid inkling
monstrous thoughts with monstrous wings
Barking mad in empty head
this wretched thing it does not sleep
to leave me be I wish it now
and bother some more lurid soul
and cast down he from highest steed
from peak to deep by cavern cold
chasm wide like open arms
embracing the forgettable
the last of man will lay at rest
his voice will wring among the stars
his body lay beneath the ground
his mind that murmurs in the void
Mortality shall be driven aft
to deeply bowels of hubris Hell
where no man can utter cry
of wanton deed or lustful way
Where the tallest man
to walk the Earth
is the tallest man
to stand beneath it
All the while his heavenly thirst
is nothing short of bliss
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 8:50 PM UTC