"horrifyingly" poems
I want to hit it hard, not romanticize about the blood ya feel me?
As you read that first line,
when you cross over to the second,
your nose will start to bleed just before my fist connects with your face.
I often dream about it, being feared.
The only reason that you're on the ground is because I put you there.
Quite frankly I'm fearful of myself.
My throat still holds the ache of the alcohol going down.
I swear to you I'm doing better.
I swear.
I can't swear in this house hold so I will talk so quickly creating run on sentences without punctuation or breath because I'm panicking over nothing in particular.
******
Add some shakes to your vocabulary and you've got it right.
My medication puts stray dogs under my finger nails, that's ok because dogs are happiness.
That's supposed to mean I'm happy.
I made myself write this, its horrifyingly scattered just like my head.
That's not right.
That's wrong.
Something is terribly wrong so I must fix it.
That's what I do,
I fix.
I'll just look at this as art.
Some persons trash is another ones treasure.
I'm too scared to write anymore.
This is garbage.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 12:58 AM UTC
Monday was terrible.
Horrific.
I spent the day sulking on my lonesome and went home ready to erupt.
I could feel the slight tingle of tears threatening their way through my eyelids
Ready to pour over the second they perched open
But due to my lack of sleep last night
I doubt I could even build up the strength to open my glossy eyes
Even if I wanted to
In a weird sense
I enjoyed the mere thought of Monday being able to make me cry
I almost laughed
Or screamed
Or both
A year ago today
Everyday was a Monday to me
Everyday went horribly
Everyday made me come home crying and lock myself in my room
I was so used to that constant repetitive torture
That Monday appeared to be no different than any other day
Monday was just... It.
Tuesday was "it"
Wednesday was "it"
Thursday was "it"
Friday was "it"
Even Saturday and Sunday were "it"
But now, today
Monday is distinct
In a horrifyingly gruesome way
And this tear-jerking unsatisfying Monday gave me hope
Monday made me cry
Tuesday did not
Wednesday did not
Thursday did not
Friday did not
Not even Saturday or Sunday made me cry
Only Monday made me cry
Only Monday
Just as Monday made 7 billion other humans cry
On this torturous inescapable earth
It also made me cry
And that gave me hope that maybe I really am normal
Or I can be
Or I will be
Because Monday is unbearable for everyone
And Monday is unbearable for me
And the rest of the week is alright for most people
And it was alright for me
And Saturday and Sunday are fun for most people
And Saturday and Sunday were fun for me
Somewhere
Deep inside my clouded, muddy mind
I caught a glimpse of hope
That maybe
There is hope for me
Maybe I am cured
Maybe I can be
Maybe I will be
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 12:13 AM UTC
She had been at sea for three decades
her first voyage at age eighteen
a week after her marriage
in the year of our Lord 1883
She married a sailing man
captain of his own ship
handsome, bearded and tall
a fine commander of his men
as they searched the sea for whales
She loved life at sea
and could imagine no other
the motion of the ship
the sounds of the rigging and the sails
the quiet companionship
with her husband every evening
She was beloved by her husband’s men
whom she mothered well
having had no sons of her own
but nurtured and healed
patched and sewed
bloodied and broken hearts and men
Often she came out on deck
for she knew when they would find them
and though she was in the stern
and the lookout was high in the crow's nest
she saw many whales they missed
She thrilled each time she saw them
awed by their sheer size
marveling at their strength
humbled by their beauty
careful to hide her feelings
Sometimes she could feel
when a whale would blow
and she would call to the first mate
so the men looked at her
as the whale passed unseen
Most times she silently prayed
willing the lookout to search
the wrong spot of ocean
and felt again the pang
of disloyalty to her husband
for he commanded a whaling ship
But then the lookout's call came
"Thar she blows!"
and the men sprang to action
taking after the whale in longboats
while she escaped below
She had seen before the killing
she would not watch again
too many whales succumbed
to exploding harpoons
and a death horrifyingly cruel
And she wondered
what would happen
if only whales could scream . . .
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 6:49 AM UTC
An empath
Just a ProSonderer
Nothing more
But quick to learn
every human’s soul
will be instinctively felt
just as the breeze flows
through that open window
A soul
it’s wandering to your heart’s beat
on rare occasion it deviates from the tune
nothing more
—Because you don’t acknowledge
its existence yet;
Could you truly expect to progress
in finding your soul’s mate
when you don’t even know your spirit’s home?—
A pair of souls is always made from a single star
so when you find another
that renders your talkative self speechless
or leaves your smooth conversing ways to only a stutter
Find another that leaves you in awe and wonder
that makes your chest feel comfort in the ache
when you're longing not only at midnight
but in public midday for that other
if its a flame
that just won't fade
no matter how long you stay
tell yourself to not push this one away
you're not in danger anymore
let that person breach your barricades
allow them a chance to understand your spirit’s ways
you'll soon stop automatically
encouraging them to go
the day will arrive when you won’t be itching to show them the door
chances are you'll find
nothing's worth more
then an empath finding their
lone star soul in their own time
And as a sondering empath
I understand having that
(impenetrably
-fragile only to a certain fine-tuned touch-
translucent but sporadically opaque)
guard with others
Seems like a darkly humored folklore
a normal person’s usual day
is just a daunting notion due to exhaustion from feeling everyone's emotion
but when you meet that one
you won't just understand their soul
you'll have a brand new reading
and it’ll feel horrifyingly confusing
just remember there's a first time for everything
when that someone intuitively understands you.
Jan 23, 2018
Jan 23, 2018 at 7:14 AM UTC
I’m not me anymore. I can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t do, can’t be. I am still, and silent, and sad. So achingly, horrifyingly sad. Everything hurts, but nothing hurts at all, because I’m absolutely numb. I curl up and try to keep all of everything inside of me from falling apart. I don’t even want to open my eyes.
Why is winter my kryptonite?
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 2:31 PM UTC
The music of life, at times, is a raucously *** concert
of ominously monotonous melodies sung sirenically
by voluptuously ugly monsters.
Curvaceous enough to flaunt the fact they’re actually ****
Which makes you feel like an *** but that’s just the way
it was meant to be.
Then the chorus bombs in, and the song starts to get sweeter
since the tune becomes a lot like Bob’s album: Street-Legal.
But as quick as you can nictitate, the ****** you anticipate
flicks away like a spark that was never gonna be lit-to-flame.
And so revert the monsters, their obnoxiously off-key verse,
somehow being, paradoxically, still acceptably heard.
And I almost forgot to mention how horrifyingly awkward
the gawking audience dances! Watching it is honestly
the most awful part of this non-senseness.
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 3:24 AM UTC
Hypocrite,
Hypocrite am I.
Cruel nature
plays the harshest games,
the fire-on-the-Cuyahoga,
shit-splatter brain busters.
The city is cooled by her
harsh and horrifyingly
Maternal touch.
Snow falls attractively
on the dying city below,
picaresque and perfect
in this last-winter scene.
The two sky scrapers
pierce through winter's
frozen cocoon,
though envelop will be the
less threshed land.
Slums are ravished in snow,
spoiled by the cold
cold cold crying
of a maiden not warm.
I am buried beneath
layers of snow,
reddened when paled,
angered by my cooling.
Numbing comes with this
frenzied freeze,
like the kids down the street
who grow out their beards
even though they can't
grow their *****
I am numbed
despite the fact that
Feeling is fruitful;
cruel nature does not wish
for such connections
to fall upon me.
Perhaps it is love,
and I would love to believe so,
that causes her to covet-
no, hoard me so.
Perhaps it is love,
and it so clearly is ringing in this numb numb numbness,
that causes her to bury me
in mountains of snow.
I am counting down the time
til my melt down,
as spring is not so long away.
Perhaps it is love,
and the rising flowers whisper it like jealous children oft do,
that she has always been
so deathly afraid of.
This is the spring of our love,
But we are not as springy as we should be.
Hypocrite,
Hypocrite am I.
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 7:42 PM UTC
I heard Peter Piper picked a pricey pepper, the same day I heard he got chased down by a hungry mob of less than lovely lepers, now Peter Piper and his picked pepper are prodded by hot pokers while a village of now happy, hairless, horrifyingly lipless lepers salivate in anticipation of poor Peter Piper's soon to be pickled body.
The Masses chant and cheer to sounds of Peter's screams that seem to season his sizzling skin as children scrape scolding scraps peeling from his searing kneecaps.
Veins build up pressure, veins then rupture, veins open and spray onto the crowd and moisturize all the rough textures, soaked faces gain weight and fall off exposing maggots that festered, excited crowds jump and cheer as their knees buckle and bodies fracture.
The elder ***** picks a peck of pickled Peter Piper, now the elder ***** enjoys a pepper with a peck of old Peter Piper.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 4:14 PM UTC
when people meet strangers it’s only normal to ask “who are you?”, and the next sentence verbally put out will be what they call First impressions. when people meet strangers it’s only normal to ask “who are you?” and then what do we say? when i was 3 and in my pram i answered “i’m a girl”, when i was 8 and at a dinner with my mother i answered “i’m her daughter”, when i was 16 and at a party i suddenly found the words choked in my throat.
who am i?
that night i went to bed with crawling skin and whispering thoughts armed with hydrofluoric acid that nibbled away at my soul as the clock ticked by. painful seconds, minutes, hours passed, and i decided i couldn’t. that night i spent the remaining hours sitting in front of my mirror manually taking myself apart like a jigsaw puzzle that seemed to fit but never really did. there i sat, in the heavy, thick atmosphere of confusion, anger and suffocation.
who am i?
i arranged the pieces of me neatly on the silver tray― the oesophagus with years of corrosion by food that i reversed back up my throat so forcefully i made gagging look professional; the horrifyingly thin skin on my wrist with the twisted definitions of Art i thought would release the emotions in me. is there a word for putting back a shattered sculpture only to throw it down from the twenty first floor? is there a word for being forcefully submerged in bitter water and trying to breathe, only to realize you can’t? there is only so much you can lock into twenty six letters, but this is not about me.
this is not about me.
this is about the people who have lost grip of the kite strings attached to themselves and can proudly declare “I am a lawyer”, “I am a doctor”, “I am a teacher”, “I am an artist”, “I am a singer” but can not convince themselves about their empty eyes. this is about injecting those already stained with insecurity with self esteem, pouring emotions and feelings into their hollow shells of bodies, only then can we shrill with satisfaction “I have contributed to the world!” this is about dreaming of a day when people are asked “who are you?” and the answer will come flowing from deep within unlocked ventricles. we will refuse to be contained in blurry, grainy. colorless film with faces blended onto one another.
this is about dreaming of a day where mirrors are looked down upon and weight is merely a number.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 12:39 PM UTC
I was to supposed to write of the Thunderstorm.
High winds. Pouring rain.
Uprooted trees. Burning wood.
A terribly terrific piece.
But, I let the words float on.
Drowning in a sea of unwritten dreams.
I was supposed to write of the Dancing Flame.
Rocking embers. Glowing rhythm.
Sweet cinder. Smoking desires.
A horrifyingly honest part.
But, I let the words smolder into ash.
Going down in an arsonist's dream.
But mania, oh mania.
Writing everything about nothing.
But me, oh me.
Writing nothing about anything.
I was supposed to write,
But didn't.
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 4:33 PM UTC
A glistening, shimmering, cardinal room flushed with light.
Bright, white, pale, ghostly light that reveals those I conjecture to be the sick.
A pounding, loud rhythm lulls any intellect I still grip.
A fierce, shallow, pained pulse shakes my blue streaks.
All words escape me.
Yet all emotions haunt me.
The sickness draws near, weilding to be a blurry brass.
It feels me, touches me, handles me.
Hurts me.
A once well-kept health now littered with purple smudges.
The violet raindrops on my skin slowly dissolve to a sickly yellow.
Bones inside my complex anatomy quiver, tremble, threaten to crumble.
Yet, it's all over in slight second.
The crimson, glowing, glittering, sentient walls seem to cave in.
The next level, the next trial.
Blurred brass now replaced with a stick with no stains.
By now, I have no guesstimate as to why the fight in me faded.
Sccrrraape.
A gentle scrape, blade, cutting,cold edge slices me like paper.
Though my own rust spills, I feel more alive than ever.
My personal pulse and hesitant headache fade to null.
Hot, burning flames lap at my body.
I would never have imagined a sickness so horrifyingly painful.
A simple warning would never have stopped my doom.
Rip, tear, slash.
Guts held within my willing bowl now pour like Seppuku.
Maybe my own subconscious knew that it was more than I could connect too.
What am I now but a corpse?
Carved wood, turning death into a spectacular sight.
Roadkill, squashed within confines of a simple vermilion hold.
Bed head, Split head, and a coma that came to soon.
A drugged animal, put down for instinctive behavior.
A gift switched around, like a fetus left dead in the womb.
This is a red room
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 9:02 PM UTC
We’ve been here over and over again.
It seems so silly to cry these day, you see I already told you my whole life story or atleast I tried to but it seemed like you never even bothered to listen.
So I sit here right where you left me, in the dark with no one by my side.
I ran far from every memory, every thought, every dream of you
Then so easily, cruelly, and horrifyingly slow you picked me up, swept me off my feet, and threw me right back to where it hurt most,
To when everything was left unspoken, left unseen.
Here you go again,
Trying to make me unlove you.
You'd say anything to make me leave but you wouldn't say a thing to make me stay.
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 1:37 PM UTC
The goat didn’t understand
the significance of the bell around
his neck,
smelled
the sunlight hitting
the dewy grass
as he opened his eyes each morning,
looked
at his handlers, the humans,
and thought of them
as his protectors,
took
a kinetic joy
in bounding through open fields
among sage and purple wildflowers,
kicking
up dirt,
and taking naps
in the shade of thick cypress trees
on hot, dry afternoons.
One day,
a rope was tied
around his neck,
and he was led
to a place he had never
been before, and
into a situation
he had never
considered
before.
The goat was tied
to a tree
in a sunken, gray,
muddy place.
He was surrounded by
a throng of faces.
He recognized
some of them—
humans he had known
and smelled,
sometimes kicked,
sometimes licked.
Some of the faces
smoked cigarettes
and sat in silence.
Others talked excitedly.
Others drank
and sang.
All of them were waiting
for something,
but the goat did not
understand what.
And then he
felt a hand
grab onto one of his
horns. Its grip was firmer
than the goat remembered
the grip of a human hand could be.
And then he felt an arm
around his back,
it was almost a hug,
but more resolute in its
intentionality—
wholly,
horrifyingly,
out of character
from what the goat had
understood about
his handlers.
The goat now
realized that
something was wrong.
He did not
want to be in this position
any longer. He
began struggling,
kicking more
and more violently,
but still he felt more arms
and hands
restraining him—
pinning him down
in spite of
his protestations.
The goat began to
cry out
for help, for God,
for one of his humans—
a final plea
to the universe
to come and rectify
the situation.
And then the goat felt
a cold, hard edge
pressed against his throat.
Wild-eyed,
he looked up,
and there he saw
his human,
the one who had
fed him
and cared for him
for as long as
he could remember.
The man ******
his arm
and yanked the goat’s head
back,
and the goat felt a shocking,
slicing pain.
He could sense that warm fluid was
draining
down his neck, could
tell something
irreparable had happened
to his body. His
eyes darted around,
looking at all of
the unflinching, cold faces
surrounding him.
Up until
this moment,
the goat hadn’t
considered
the possibility
that the ones whom he
loved
so dearly
and who loved
him
so dearly
could
betray him
like
this.
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 12:02 AM UTC
I am very seriously angry
My government has gone mad.
It seems to be out to get me
And take everything I ever had.
Once I was proud of my country
And got a swell in my throat
When I heard the national anthem.
That was before they stole my vote.
That was before I discovered
This country had been co-opted.
That was before the them of hatred
Had been officially adopted.
That was when animals were safe
And our national resources were too.
Now my government was to ******
The birthright owing to me and you.
That was before being rich
Was the only way to be fairly safe.
That was before the government
Chose to put their weapons on strafe.
That was before the wealthy
Could do whatever they might want
And before they felt it was their right
To go on television and flaunt.
They flaunt their hatred of women,
The poor and the weak and sick.
That was before I could not deny
Our country had become a ****
A horrifyingly rich and powerful
Banana republic , we’re the worst.
Equality and protection are gone
Unless you are a millionaire.
And even then you must adhere
To the party line or else beware.
But we have the greediest bunch
Of liars and evil brand of crooks
That have ever been in control;
The leaders are cooking the books.
Nov 17, 2017
Nov 17, 2017 at 8:26 PM UTC
We sip our coffee and cream
and drink our whiskey and beer
Then listen to wolves
dressed as doctors
with deaf ears
and big empty eyes
and blood stained teeth
Who tell us to dull the pain with pills
and drown emotions
in prescription prayers
refillable
at the small cost of our souls
And we sit in front of flat screens
and smart phones and insta-gratification
and press the illusion of our face
between pages of a metaphor
disguised as a book
And the imagined life is better
than what is really going on
so we script our day to day lives
and step into the ring
and wrestle like big men
pretending its not just
another form of ballet
We've doubled down on dumbing down
and we're losing more than we're gaining
but we keep spinning the wheel
and the barrel
and pulling the trigger
playing the game
of suicide
and Russian Roulette
There is two bullets for every name
and a bomb of every size
waiting for its time to go BOOM
and war is just a business
for the rich
payed for by the innocent
and the ignorant
Death is big money
and blood is cheap
pump up the world population
and the rise of inflation
keep education at a minimum
as well as a wage
Keep the poor hunger
and give them an illusion to hate
divide and separate
fear is the season of reason
needed to segregate and dissipate
any sympathy or empathy
or kindness or love
We live in a nation of sheep
being lead by a pig
and it sounds like fiction
but it's horrifyingly real
and he tweets and he oinks
and he huffs and he puffs
and he is just a sad little man
having a bad hair day
day after day
The world is watching
and laughing
a nervous laugh
Maybe it's nothing to worry about
maybe I'm just late for my pill
and my beer and my whiskey
and maybe I just need a little
cyanide and cream
to lighten the mood
of the black coffee news
Jul 1, 2017
Jul 1, 2017 at 8:58 PM UTC
A world in black,
and white
That's how we see,
our history
A world if good,
and evil
That's how we see,
people
A world of land,
and sea
That's how we see,
the earth
And a world of dark,
and light
That's the beauty,
in life
And the world we live in is not,
sane
Our world is,
a mess
But things stay,
the same
I see the colors white,
to black
And black,
to white
I see the good in people,
to there evil
And the evil in people,
to there good
I walk on,
the land
And swim in,
the sea
And live when it's light,
to dark
Or dark,
to light
What ever it,
may be
And my world has,
never been
So horrifyingly,
wrong
To bad I'm at the pointwere I'm just a, walking skeleton
I rip the flesh off my lips as I,
bite them
For my nails are,
to short
and hurt to much when I try to bite,
at them
And life,
Goes on
And that's all that you can do,
Live "Normaly"
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
everything about you
makes me want
to caress every crevice of your skin,
learn every winkle and imperfection
in your distraught face.
your eyes speak wonders to those
of the untold caverns you dig
in your inner most sanctuaries.
Although your sanctuaries bring
the only hurt your body will ever feel
you treasure them like they're detrimental
to your being.
how horrifyingly beautiful it is
to see your current state of mind.
How it seems the devils touch ran
through your veins.
You've turned so horribly evil
and it's riveting.
I love all of your ****** up tendencies
and it amazes me how beautiful
you actually are.
Through every scar of your skin
and every droughty word that
flows from your mouth.
Infected with poison, and every touch
to your lips.
Needing more of the morphine your blood draws.
you drank my feelings like it's the only
thing you know how to do.
you're so dangerous and I love it.
I adore the dangerous nature of your actions.
your presence is enough of a mystery
to keep me attracted
to the lights in your dim eyes.
Beautifully simplistic.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 7:37 AM UTC
My legs tense, eyes wary of the slightest movement
around me
I had to bury all my doubts to even lift a finger,
the one
attached to
a line from my sternum to my hips
--So I’m here?
Does my presence fail to impress?
-- no,
it’s nice to feel false breath escape one’s lips
and maybe
everything
we take for granted isn’t really
there, but inside (here); why bother
holding on to memories
of the people you haven’t met
when that face beside you now disintegrates to nothing.
Even yours, smiling as it’s
picking words and touching
your sad hands, mascara pens or other ******
“mistakes” you’ve made.
I am ashamed and not guilty
free from sin and not devout; I watch every drop of sunshine
Boil in my head and horrifyingly
Evaporate.
This empty planet is a hot *** that’s how I know
we are both, in each of our solemn refusal to cling to
willingness as virtue or
consume yourself with habit—yes I know,
eternal subjectivity, which is both you and me
is cooking up a stew,
and that regardless if you know it
one day my boiling water
will be inside of you
Mar 5, 2011
Mar 5, 2011 at 11:55 AM UTC
Darkness holds the silence
The abyss has been staring
Not beckoning; apathy
Such is our worth
Just stardust in the wind
Swirls, a song doesn't sing
Leaves fall with only a breath
Crickets mate, but not chirp
Loose floorboard move
Squicklessly beneath feet
Instruments play furiously
Pages are turned, flipped
Orchastrated harmony
A crowd plays for a crowd
Applauding in silence
An accident in time
Cars flip, moving slow
Horrifyingly in frame
Metal ripping flesh
No one says a word
Clouds hang dark, heavy
Leviathans crisscrossing the sky
Lightning flashes battles between
Expecting thunderous booms
That never come, still landing
One of millions, upon millions
Spinning around stars
Flinging dust here and there
A roller coaster crashing
Giving voice to the noise
Insects on a planet's bowl
The sky, heavens well above
Aren't not listening
They simply are working
Spinning threads from lives
Ants don't worry the clouds
Climbing over themselves
Concerned only with their bits
Digging and building, constantly
Never looking up, nary a sound
Planets collide, building rocks
Striking comets from dust
Gases drift, twinkling bits
Orbits decay and sway
From holes, explode
Just floating in the sea
Maybe my hair drifts
Like my thoughts, or bits
Where the current slides me
Water covers my ears
I watch the bowl of the sky
Laying on, in its marble
As it rolls down a slow drain
In to a ball of burning fire
On the outskirts of silence
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 11:08 PM UTC
People scream as bombs destroy them.
People scream as others take their turns with them.
People scream as knifes greet them.
People scream as fists caress them.
People scream as their loved ones are gone before their very eyes.
People scream as they realize their treaties were all lies.
People scream as horrifyingly beautiful red liquid flies.
People scream as they slowly die.
People scream as they get hurt, then cry.
People scream as hunger causes them to go good-bye.
People scream as others hurt them.
People scream as others **** them.
People scream as the world destroys them.
People scream as everything causes insanity and bloodlust within them.
So the cycle once again begins.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 4:32 PM UTC
Their words
****** and harsh
Their lips
soft and pouted
How can such
***** words
fall from such a
beautiful mouth?
Their eyes
fierce and cruel
Their mouth
pulled to a scowl
How can such
gorgeous green eyes
be so horrifyingly
ruthless?
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 7:22 PM UTC
Every time
I see you
It's like a wake up call
To the facts
To that I'm not so special
To the truth
The sobering reality
That no matter how much I like you
No matter that
To put it frankly
I might even say I love you
That my feelings are true
Truer than any other emotions along the same lines
I've ever had
But in the end
Every time
Every single ******* time
My insides sink
Like the Titanic
I hit a massive bulk of hard, frozen ice
In my heart
And what floats to the surface
Is balloon poppingly
Blood drainingly
Horrifyingly
Empty
Every time
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 11:51 AM UTC
WHAT TERRIFIES ME THE MOST ABOUT YOU IS THAT YOU CAN LAY ME DOWN IN YOUR BED AND SAY THE MOST HORRIFYINGLY BEAUTIFUL WORDS I'VE EVER HEARD A GUY SAY BEFORE AND SPIT THEM RIGHT INTO MY VEINS THEN FIVE MONTHS LATER YOU SAY THE MOST PETRIFYINGLY ****** UP WORDS I'VE EVER HEARD YOU SAY BEFORE: N O T H I N G.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 10:14 PM UTC
I met this girl.
In the most awkward way.
She had the face of
an angel,
the body of a model,
and a personality best served with
celery.
I met her in a curious way.
A friend of mine
had a crush on her.
he was a lonely fellow,
a shy fellow,
and an insecure guy.
I forced him to hang out with her.
I brought him to her house, and claimed,
“I’m here for you, buddy.”
But let me tell you the regret
I felt when she walked out that door.
She was so bright,
she illuminated the secluded, dark, back street
she lived on
so much
the street lights were jealous.
She waved,
she smiled.
I knew exactly why my friend
had feelings for this girl.
The hardest part was,
now I did too.
We all became really close,
we talked all night every night.
One day, we went to the park
and I kissed her.
Sparks.
Fireworks.
Rainbows.
****** UNICORNS
came out of the woodwork.
It was horrifyingly amazing.
It was like something out of a
terribly written
Disney movie.
I ended up dating this girl,
and almost lost a friend.
This girl broke my heart,
and I got my friend back.
Six years later,
an engagement gone wrong,
and my friend has been happily
committed to someone else.
And now I find myself
sitting here now,
thinking about the girl
who could make the street lights
jealous.
Thinking about her laugh
and how she hits me
when I pick on her.
How she believes in ghosts;
and how I find that ridiculous.
How she tries to
play it off like
she some ‘Hard *** ****
But I know deep down she’s broken,
like me.
Her eyes are a gateway
to a place so far away.
A place where nothing can harm you.
Hearts don’t get broken,
tears don’t shed,
and love is energy.
I bought my ticket
to enter,
I hope it’s not too late
To catch that flight.
I want the chance to make her smile.
I want the chance to make her happy.
I want the girl
who can make the
streetlights jealous.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 10:59 PM UTC