"millionth" poems
If there was one word
One word, isolated by itself
That I cannot stand above all others
It would have to be "Okay"
I despise "Okay"
"Okay"
Is how your millionth day at work went
"Okay"
Is off-brand raisin bran
"Okay"
Is how you say life is going
When you don't want to admit you spend
Every second of it
Wanting to die
"Okay"
Is packed to the brim with
Hidden implications
Like a treasure chest
Filled with bottles
With little subliminal hatreds
Written on tiny slips of paper
Passively aggressively pushed inside
To discover later
As I pull out a treasure map
And try to decipher
Where I went wrong
"Okay"
Is a one word dismissal
That feels like an essay a thousand pages long
"Okay"
Is a poison dripping with disinterest
When I dared to share with you
Something I thought might make you smile
"Okay"
Is like trying to talk to a wall
While watching the paint on it dry
"Okay"
Takes two seconds to write
Yet I waited days
For that dreaded word
To grace my notifications
"Okay"
Should be used sparingly
As if each time you send it
You **** the receiver just a little bit
"Okay"
Should not be said so often that
I know what you're about to say
Like I saw it in a crystal ball
"Okay"
Is not looking up from your phone
When I tell you about my day
"Okay"
Is not the proper response
To "I love you"
They say that the opposite of love isn't hatred
It's indifference
And I can't think of a response
More indifferent to pouring out
My heart into your hands
Than "Okay"
At least the last thing you said to me
Before we parted ways
Showed that you cared
At least a little bit
"I hate you"
Stung less
Than the thousands of times
Over our countless conversations
You responded
"Okay"
Okay?
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 12:09 PM UTC
Route 84 would not lend me
the light of a star last night
Radio blazing at 75 mph
nonsense noise to chew gum by
Crackling political commentary
Static of distance and thick clouds
Invisible mountains blocking
Memories seeping through the cracks
coating the music in a film
I rub my eyes
watch myself punch alert buttons
But it’s the angels’ jukebox tonight
Roll down the window
Watch the heat escape
Summer again
I am building a castle of ancient stones
pulverized by relentless tides
Dragged across maps by mastodons
and mammoth glaciers
The scouring hiss
the ocean sighs
Time has lulled these smoothly
rolling them in the softest hands of sand
and gels of life’s comings and goings
tenderly tumbling
in the millionth moonrise—
Time deposits them here
wet and glistening
For the girl with the plaid two-piece to gather
Shoulders sun-burnt barely say
one week only,
one week of the fifty two
“It’s the time of the season…”
and daddies on the beach are watching….
She has chosen yet another stone
And the castle continues—
in oblivion to all but her legend…
The queen will be safe here
from the rabble
The disgraced Tristan will surely seek her
Among these lofty cliffs
Between the raging circuit of the tide
Here winds forbid the vengeful mob
Here lovers learn
the debt of love’s bad timing
“Drink ye all of it!”
--the potion that assigns our sorrow….
She will not sleep—
while I chew this gum-- GUM?
Roll down the window!
Angels escape with the heat
Waking me with the brush of their wings
As that eighteen-wheeler hugs my flank
And leans on the horn
Lights flashing
Rude rumbling under right tires
Tantrum of snow
In the draft of mass and velocity
…and the angels?
They’ve chosen another good one!
They must’ve liked the 80’s
Their wings slapping the windshield madly
Their hands steady the wheel
Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
Take for example this:
if to the colour of midnight
to a more than darkness(which
is myself and Paris and all
things)the bright
rain
occurs deeply,beautifully
and i(being at a window
in this midnight)
for no reason feel
deeply completely conscious of the rain or rather
Somebody who uses roofs and streets skilfully to make a
possible and beautiful sound:
if a(perhaps)clock strikes,in the alive
coolness,very faintly and
finally through altogether delicate gestures of rain
a colour comes,which is morning,O do not wonder that
(just at the edge of day)i surely
make a millionth poem which will not wholly
miss you;or if i certainly create,lady,
one of the thousand selves who are your smile.
16.1k
but have you noticed, have you noticed how all mental health problems
stem form a seemingly aether virus that attacks the pronoun category;
i mean with proper justifiable schizoids you will not hear of the nouns
being ransacked for an equation that equates itself to misnomers;
it's all categorised negation of ease within the framework of pronouns.
it's strange that philosophers stress the pronouns so much these days
and those countless prior, but why do mental health diseases
attack the pronouns and not the nouns? they attack the verbs
thoroughly, but prior to the verbs exposing an illness
the pronouns are attacked, so that many considering the singularity
of expressing thought are ill because of being forced into a plural expression
of thought: "voices." i find it hard to understand, but it's the reality,
the aether virus attacks the pronoun
on the backdrop of a king's casual expression / use
of pronouns, when a king casually says
of himself as omni or multi with one and we respectively;
so why are pronouns so weak and nouns so strong
that a tree cannot be a misnomer attaché of timber
and rock not a pillar, or mountain as the verb: mountaineering?
the pronoun category is weak from day one,
because it suggests photographic duck animation on the lip pursed
into a quack quack, but if we constructed thought
without knowledge prior, eating the fruit of knowledge
rather than the fruit of thought, using the starting point
of the genesis metaphor, it's sometimes a no brainer
to have weak thinking and strength in knowing,
for if there was strength in thinking and weakness in knowing,
i'd be the one chiseling these words in the ice age on a cavern wall.
so, given, that diseases such as the famed premature dementia
attack the pronouns but not the nouns the schizoid one
will convene life with: pizza is pizza and sunshine ray down the drain
clock the millionth dead parting of grasshoppers in decimals -
while man unto man lusts one man's parting in decimals,
but should dire said, part man with integers, and insects with decimals!
but still, in the terminology of a cartesian understanding of illness,
in that segregational aspect of things "sorted,"
why are mental illnesses tattooed in a weak pronoun usage
compared to a strength in other grammatical categories?
why are not mental illnesses ******* the life out of the nouns?
the nouns are intact, the pronouns attacked,
and the verbs chess piece the pawn from the casually speaking clown king
into a beast imprisoned, for while the pronouns are attacked
and the nouns left intact, the attack on pronouns expresses itself
fully in verbs of the never existent tact: with such magic
as to claim knock knock on plank is the same as knock knock on veneer.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 7:58 PM UTC
So I scuttled up, until I found a voice like Japan, I read him his rights, turned out the lights, and laid right back on the sand. They said, "Sir, he was much of a father to me, but we were labeled his kin, right in our family tree." "Oh wow", I said, with a gentle, smooth voice, he went missing last August, but now he wants back you boys?" "Oh yes, he sure is a feral man. We think that's why he dried up and flew to Japan." Right then, the two of them went silent just like two second story men, so I inquired, "What happened then?" "From Monday thru Sunday he took to prayer from the bible, and on every other weeknight he watched Japan's Top Model. He threw gallant parties to a harem of wives, he read each of their palms, and looked in their eyes; some time later, when everyone was about to leave, he'd turn on Happy End and start a wild **** By this time I was tired, the sun began to set, I grew tired of my beach patch and yearned for my bed. Although soporific, I tried to be polite, I said, "Let's finish this conversation some other time." "Of course!", they said, "We're off to bed. We'll see that you'll do the same." Then they stood up quick, and reached down and picked up my chains. The beach we laid on was black top, asphalt and tar, the bed I craved was behind a row of private bars. The two of them, them both, were children of mine, because my memory is shot, this might've been their millionth time. i got locked up in a county that's dry as a beach, like Elizabethtown, Kentucky, where I was raised till 13. No one, not even the warden, knows really why I'm here, even some man from Cell Block Five, asked me last Sunday, why was I here. My beach perhaps, it's love at last, concrete, gravel, and stone- a 6' x 10' room with bars and a porcelain throne. It's mine I cry, each night I die, with glee, with smile, with rite. But it makes the other guys run at me, and try to start random fights. I don't remember the boat I took, but I remember the tour, going to Japan at Epcot Center since I'd never gone before.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 3:30 AM UTC
From the ripple in a glass of water
to the sonic boom of this internal
Pompeii, the erosion
of her etymology is the only
sense of movement in her
dilated, cave-pupil eyes, those
two ghost towns spanning
and encircling all the way back,
stretched like an elastic blindfold
past the moment the first brick was laid,
perhaps her first vivid memory,
or anecdote, or first word uttered
in a Cuban slum.
There are mountains of tumbleweed
over the once thriving metropolis
that expanded towards America;
who threw herself into
the architecture of seven pillars,
borne from her land and
minerals. Gone are the
huts that housed her
knowledge of basic motor skills.
The women who once imagined
Mami and Mima as her birth
name now scrub off
the graffiti of her excrement;
they saw a swarm of pink moons
the day she told the same story
to every visitor that came
their way, each day then becoming
a missing surveillance tape, a sinkhole
dismantling the awareness
in her bones and stubborn will,
until she became
these dust-engulfed plains with
a daughter and granddaughter
archeological in their efforts
to chase down the remains
of a girl still breathing in
those eyes from time to time.
Every other ten-millionth blink of
the eye rides the silhouette of a post-infant girl
on the high tides of her quick visit,
looking in horror
as the nation of her life's nightmares,
heartaches, broken promises, romances,
spiritual breakthroughs, life-changing seconds
drowns with morbid unity en cien fuegos,
desperately attempting to assemble
the remnants of her psyche
past her cognitive bloodclots
with the awareness of one
who speaks no languages.
Gone is the moment
she first learned
to feed her several children
before the slip of sunset.
One of seven pillars remain intact,
the others long dismantled of their
stick and straw infrastructures.
One pillar remained,
housed her own colony
for nine months,
and now both descendants
travel the mind of their
greatest influence
with perplexed dedication,
caustic humor the decoy
for swarms of exhaustion
and asphyxiation
from the truthful atmosphere,
reveling in the seconds
of humanity lurking
in an abandoned etymology.
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 11:19 AM UTC
The Riot Began on a Sunday Evening
My dearest kin, how deceiving
shout, scream, taunt
Shout. Scream. Taunt.
SHOUT! SCREAM! TAUNT!
Ablaze with yells
Bank money, In-laws from hell
Little draw-backs, taxes of life
It kills them, it murders every night.
It grew and grew
Drizzle to Hurricane
Dazed, bruised embrace
I, myself, a teenage girl of sixteen,
I remained curled in the comforter, cotton was my security.
Laying down by the side of shadow
I whimper and wonder
My tiny boy, my tiny love,
He remains as lonely as I
The bedroom is far from escape
I may be used to walking the desert alone
But my little love, he remains unknown.
And for that first night, millionth life,
I rise.
My movement ripples nothing
But my conscience gaping
Death mission death mission death mission
I refuse to sink.
Pitter patter against the stony floor
My footsteps whisper, but they do not stir.
My dearest kin, how deceiving...
I slip into his life, desiring to sooth his mind
"My love, my love," I coo.
He responds without further ado.
"Geetika?"
I desire a cry when I hear this soft, soft, kitten-like
My boy, my boy, my boy.
I prepare to face PTSD
But all I face is a dream within a nightmare.
"Did you know I got thousand points on fruit ninja this evening?"
I blink.
And blink.
He hasn't noticed a single thing!
They say his specialty is his curse
But I am thanful,
Because he has not heard!
My boy, my boy!
He remains oblivious
My dreamer, my dreamer!
Out of touch of reality,
My little baby.
Numbers and points and games engulf his mind
So consumed
So unaware
But I AM SO THANKFUL!
He hadn't noticed a single thing, my boy my boy, my dreamer...
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 4:35 AM UTC
Sometimes I tell myself that it's okay to feel this way,
that God gets tired too,
that sometimes He is the small child
slaving over a sewing machine
turning thread into warmth,
but not every sweater He makes
is made without a few loose strings,
or pockets sewn shut
or mismatched buttons.
My knees sink into the end of my bed
as I rest my elbows on my window sill.
I think as our hands face each other
and touch for the millionth time,
it's like a silent clap
that only the angels can here,
sometimes I apologize
to those resting in peace
for making their home sound more like
the ending of the movie
instead of the end of the book.
I greet God the same way
I greet your headstone.
I ask Him how He is,
why He only speaks in light,
and then I pretend to talk to Him,
when really I am talking to myself
or your headstone...again.
I say, "It's okay to feel this way.
I think it's okay to watch,
to write in depth about strangers,
I think it's okay to detach
yourself from the weight of existing.
Everyone around me built
themselves kingdoms,
they kept fire breathing dragons,
rolled out their drawbridges like red carpets
and I built myself a cardboard castle.
I built it on the highest hill
with a view of all of the kingdoms
and you know what?
I was alone,
but I had room to breathe
and sometimes that's all you can ask for;
an empty room with a closed door
and open window.
I said grace at dinner earlier,
but I said it out of tradition,
not out of genuine thankfulness.
So, thank you for the empty room
with the closed door and open window,
I know you're tired,
I hope you can respond when you get a chance."
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 1:09 AM UTC
Hell hath no fury like a toddler who wants it and wants it NOW
!
Screaming pulling and flailing…a reminder of how she was conceived in the first place.
Hell hath NO fury like a mother on her last straw!
So close to breaking that camels back
.
Though there feels like there is no other emotion as strong as fury when you are just…
You just can’t.
You need a minute.
You collect yourself, or at least try, because who else is going to make that hamburger helper you despise so much?
You step back in the room scattered with death traps that play those oh too familiar songs
And the storm...has calmed.
You huff a sigh of epic proportions releasing the stress of the eternity that just passed,
(Which is equal to about 10-15 normal people minutes.)
and she mimics you with the grin of innocence a hundred times over.
You sit there staring at this exuberant life form you’ve created and you can’t help but wonder if it’s all real.
You notice, for the thousandth time how much she looks like you.
You notice for the millionth time how much she means to you.
Hell hath no fury compared to her admiration and love for me…
And my love for her.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 3:21 PM UTC
I'll never forget the way you looked
As you stood with your back to me
No defenses - no walls
Painting with such care
And so much love
as I peaked through the French doors.
You didn't hear me
as I opened the door
Because you have chosen to exit the world
Slowly
First by losing interest in hearing
And then in forgetting short term nonsense,
Preferring to live in the glorious past..
You were painting for me,
My once most picture perfect Mother.
Now with hat and shorts and torn shirt,
and not giving a care in the world
For how you appear
And I could see, in that moment,
Your immense love for me
And I knew it was there from the very beginning,
And that despite scars of our
mythical mother daughter battles,
it would never be lost
Or ever forgotten
And my heart broke
For the millionth time
Into millions of Pieces
For I understood then
That love between mother and daughter
is greater than
Time and life Itself.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 1:53 AM UTC
Tormenting distance always a shadow
this separated feeling from reality and you
Tonight I put my life on repeat for the millionth time
and sit here dreaming without ever closing my eyes
In these visions, I see red burning sunsets
that never descend below horizon's edge
I see clusters of stars raining galaxy hail
vast nebula clouds, our oceans to sail
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 8:24 PM UTC
Theirs tears are wiped by your words
Your prayer, the prey to their sadness
Hope is the response to your call
These radio waves push them to greener shores
Yet, I pray for you
That the thousandth, millionth time
Still has that first time glow
Jun 7, 2022
Jun 7, 2022 at 9:27 AM UTC
you tasted like ******* and I tasted
like blue raspberry jolly ranchers
you tasted like what am I doing
and I'm sure I did too
you smiled and leaned in and
I put my fingers on your dimples
you pulled me on top and I forgot to think
I forgot that drugs that taste like
gasoline when they're "the real ****
aren't flavors I'm supposed to enjoy
you kissed my nose and said it was
weird because you are so closed off
but I make you want to open up
I shook my head and pretended that
wasn't the millionth time I've heard that one
oh I make you want to throw away your past
and get close to someone again?
cool, write us a happy ending too
I woke up this morning exhausted
with matted hair and smudged makeup
I kissed your neck, kissed your neck,
kissed your neck....
your roommate said she liked me
and I kissed your neck again.
you are movement
you are time
you are start middle finish
you are finish line, winning by a second
you said you don't want to open up
then tell me why you're here?
tell me why you're looking at me like that
and kissing me like that
and holding me like that
tell me why you're touching me like that
your insides are ripping and
you're dying to crawl out
I can see it in your stare
you were not expected
frankly you weren't really wanted
but I put my fingers in your
dimples and I forgot to breathe
I always forget to breathe
you tasted like ******* I mean that literally
you tasted like this isn't a good idea
but I want it so bad and I mean that literally
you looked at me and said
"no like, if I'm doing this it's because I mean it"
I wanted to tell you same thing
but looking back I don't think
I would have meant it
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 10:49 PM UTC
Potential is not made when you are a child,
Though, at that age, your elders will search for it.
Potential is made when you pick up a pen,
a pencil, a marker, a paintbrush,
For the first time,
Or for the millionth.
Perfection is nearly caught by a camera,
And never by the hand.
But, if paintings looked like a digital picture,
What would be the point of such expression?
If you are looking to draw with such precision,
Look and find another passion,
another hobby, another profession, another way to vent.
If you are looking to find yourself,
to find peace, to find wisdom, to find enjoyment,
Pick up your hand and take the tool.
The artist's style is found through mistake.
A style, is a lack of perfection,
to show the world through your eyes, to alter it.
What you don't understand,
You will toil over, stress over,
hate yourself over, be frustrated over.
Look away from your mistake for a moment.
What is left, is what is yours.
This will change slowly overtime,
As you become better at both strength
And weakness.
The battle between these two opponents,
Will guide your journey.
The art itself is only a mirror of reflection,
Showing all you have done, your past,
your struggles, your joys, your imperfections, your toils,
This is an artist's style.
Pick up your pen,
Your potential is now.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 9:44 PM UTC
Ms. Disappointment stares out her window,
aware she's crushed a heart today.
For the millionth time
she gets on the line;
tries to make up some excuse
but I know she's a good liar.
Ms. Disappointment "can't stand it anymore";
tries to make me turn my head.
"Just one last kiss?"
Can you kiss my fist?
Someones got an anger issue,
but it really comes in handy.
Ms. Disappointment doesn't know where she went wrong.
She thinks I was her "one last chance".
But the idea went sour
passing through my cell phone tower.
Tone does not reflect through words,
so love turned out to be the birth of hate.
"Oh, can't you just stay a little longer?"
My dear, why would you want me to?
"Because I love you!" Oh, don't feed me that ****
My heart's done callused
and all's gone to hell.
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 4:31 PM UTC
Another day in quarantine not sure how many days left now, I've mainly been giving most of my writing time to the short novel and for a moment there when I was describing how one of the characters looked like I thought of you how your voice is like a sweet melody that one needs after a hard day, how your eyes are as comforting as a toddlers hug, how your smile brings the same amount of warmth as the sun peeking through the clouds of a rainy day, how your presence is enough to wash away any negativity brought on by the world leaving a person feeling blessed like God placing his hand upon one, with that I realized how much of you this world needs, a person who by just being themselves brings joy to others without pretending or expecting something in return, and for the millionth time you're one gorgeous woman and till my last breath you will forever be.
Apr 5, 2020
Apr 5, 2020 at 3:57 AM UTC
There can be no millionth chance.
We’re not meant to be.
Forgiveness happened long ago,
But I believe that maybe,
We have too much past
To have a present
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
"Why do we always end up here?"
I thought, as we sat down
At the same old bench
For the millionth time.
I thought about how we came here
In a mid-may storm,
My makeup washed away,
And I heard you really laugh for the first time,
So I smiled for the rest of the day.
I thought about the first time I heard the words
"I love you" slip off your lips,
And how you swore we would make it work.
My hair got messier than the words you couldn't say,
And I saw you shut me out for the first time,
But I kissed you anyway.
"Why do we always end up here?"
You ask, as we settle in
At the same old bench
For the millionth time.
I smiled to myself,
And I realized
"It's just a really good place to sit."
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC
What in the world is wrong with me?
Writing poems about gross stuff I see.
Like ***** matter and old underwear
Is there something odd up there?
Poems all about maggoty dog poo,
Popping pimples and what else did I do?
I wrote a poem about a piece of ****
And a guy blowing boogars in his soup
One about a pickled pig in a jar
Do I think this will make me a star?
About a guy who was stuck on a bus
Who had an accident and there was a fuss
I also wrote one about my pet cat
With tinsel in her **** What's up with that?
I also have a poem about picking everything
from teeth to **** and finger licking
I wrote about an autopsy that happens when your dead
Is there a short circuit inside of my head?
You know I had to write about farting gas
And what happens when something else you pass.
And about a guy killing a bunch of birds
Just because one, in his eye, dropped a terd
About inflamed hemroids and rotten, spoiled meat
And a terd eating dog. That's not neat!
One about a boy not bathing for a month
I wonder if that wasn't my millionth.
I even have one about digging up old poo
And one about changing diapers. Oh eww!
I'm sure that soon there will be more to come
With the way my brain works and where I'm from
So 'til then I think I'll end this tirade
And hope you'll read the next mess made.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 11:49 PM UTC
We are the children of electricity.
I run an idle finger down your loveliness
And feel only sparks.
They flicker in ecstasy against my hands,
And for the millionth time I force myself away
Terrified it's too much.
So much light inside of you,
My greed is overwhelming.
These shocks I have to harness for my own.
They can only be mine.
For I have no electricity of my own,
And rely on you for the light
To move through the dark days ahead.
Jul 19, 2011
Jul 19, 2011 at 5:17 AM UTC
I wrote this after reading a poem about fake people off Facebook.
All is not fair in love when you got to research dudes secret desires and **** like that.
The real dudes want you to be real and not be head game queen to get him.
I'm a real man who spent time seeking women in all the wrong places.
Tried real life met my share of God faring GCB ****** droppers giving it up.
Met ones at bars who drink to much, will do you but blame it all on *****
I've met plenty of fake women seeking to get at what I have using *** methods.
Met many raised thinking marrying a rich man is better than a poor one.
If all the women claiming they want a decent guy were real they would find one.
Met some at malls wearing rings but bored with husbands and Facebook is a hunting
ground for lonely women and housewives like the ones off Craigslist placing ads.
Did some knowing they married ones weren't keepers they forgot they were married
not me. Who thinks about a wedding ring when married women come on to you and
you find **** what you see in profile pics and think you can't have it then BAM.
Husbands aren't the only ones placing ads and setting up hookups off net.
If you think I'm a scumbag what about the lonely married women who flirt, tease and
****** in chat and phone tempting you until you feel you gotta take it to real.
What about the young ones using bodies and *** to get a nice life and a ring on it.
Most of the young ones don't look at the man as desirable but are good at fake ***
Met a woman who got dumped by plenty of men and faked a pregnancy to get a
married man. After she got him to leave his wife, kids and home she had to fake
a miscarriage to keep from being dumped by the millionth man.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 4:30 AM UTC
One click was all it took
And I was hooked
Once glance, yeah just one look
And my faith was shook
One sin, my world caved in
Flooding in with water to my chin
And I still can't believe it all came down
With one click
And the devil said to me,
"Boy, you belong to me
And you'll never be free
Your heart is bound to me with
One click" was all it took
And I was hooked
Once glance, yeah just one look
And my faith was shook
One sin, my world caved in
Flooding in with water to my chin
And I still can't believe it all came down
With one click
Now God I'm on my knees
For the millionth time I plead
Do not abandon me
Pour your light down on me
One man is what it took
It's in your book
A lamb who had not sinned
One cross, his blood was lost
But you raised Him up again
One hope is all I have
And I am glad
That You are the God You are
Because I know that by your strength I'll overcome
That once click
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 8:27 PM UTC
Ana
Why won't you eat?
Ask me that question
The other way 'round
Reasons more than my ten fingers
Ana
Worry not
Worry never
Ana
One bite or two
It'll do you good
Just bite a bit more
Oh
I will surely be pleased
Ana
Said you weren't hungry
For the millionth time
Said you're saving money
Savings must be millions
For how many times you've said
millions.
I will guard you
Not to throw up
That blessing you received
Ana
Hold that finger still
By your side
Dare you not
To put in your throat
Force to let it out
Ana
I hope you're doing good
Now eat this meal
I know you can do it.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 11:14 AM UTC
It's been some time now
And I still haven't figured out how to walk past you
Without feeling that every muscle in my body is dying
Including the one beating in my chest
So fast
That my skin starts hurting.
And I'm sitting here now
Trying to cover my eyes with the smoke of the millionth cigarette I've smoked
Since I last saw your eyes.
And my skin still hurts.
And somehow
The calm rain washing the ground where I've spilled my drunken soul
Still sounds like your voice.
Like music does.
And my soul smells like you.
And my skin still hurts.
Like your absence does.
It's been some time now
And I still haven't figured out
How to close my eyes
Without seeing you in my dreams.
And my skin still hurts.
Like your smile does.
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 6:37 PM UTC