"pretends" poems
i don’t want to be someone who writes in pencil
and eats too slowly and walks with eyes that
are glued to the sidewalk and tops of strangers’ feet
i’ve been underwater for so long that
i’ve forgotten lungs are meant
to be filled with air; exhaling seems
more like something found
on the second star to the right, rather
than a process that is meant to be
done twenty-three thousand times a day
i feel like an old woman who
looks in the mirror and all she can see
are wrinkles and white hair and tired eyes and
the absence of who she used to be
but i am not someone who turns away
from sunsets and pretends
that darkness is all i’ve ever known;
someone who thinks
the sun will never rise again
because the sun will rise again—
the words hiding inside of me will
find their way out, because
i cannot hold my breath forever
i am not someone who writes in pencil
and erases the bits that are too
honest and too imperfect and too real
to claim as thoughts of my own
i cannot keep my lips pursed and
hands tied behind my back,
i cannot keep pretending i am
a shadow of who i used to be
my tomorrows hold suns much
brighter than ones that have risen
over horizons of my past;
i have not reached the summit yet
there is so much more me
for me to become
each day, i am new.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 1:09 AM UTC
Ice Ice Ice
Ice Ice Ice Ice
Capital I
see eee see eee
Ice Ice Ice
Ice ice ice ICE
Ice ice ice iceice
Ice Ice
ICE
Cream cream
Cream Cream Cream
Cream Cream Cream Cream
Cream Cream CREAM cream
CREAM cream cream CREAM
cream cream CREAM cream cream
krrr eeem krrr eeeem krrr eeem
Ice cream I love you
like a love song baby
But Ice cream is lovely
Cause it's such a wannabe
Cause ice cream is cream
who pretends to be ice
What say you ? Let's roll the dice
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 5:58 AM UTC
3-2-2017 (unknown date of origin)
Something's wrong... you don't belong here.
I said, looking down at the pineapple on my pizza.
I said, looking down at the ketchup on my macaroni.
I said, looking down at the cream of mushroom soup on my meatloaf.
He said, looking down at me and my boyfriend, holding hands in public.
Like I'm a creep. I'm a ******
What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here.
You see there's these things that we learn at the dinner table.
When we're kids we have certain items served to us on our plates.
Whatever doesn't end up there, isn't a part of the discussion.
After all, they say if you don't have a seat at the table, you are likely to be on the menu.
So, when ****** orientation and gender identity aren't seated at the table of childhood, they get served for the first time in unexpected places.
Like an avante garde celebrity chef's designer meal, prepared for critiques by the food bloggers.
They get served in college classroom debates or in dorm rooms with freshman roommates.
They're on the menu in in some movies but served with a side of stereotypes and silly trope toppings.
They get grinded into glitter dust sprinkled on the annual PRIDE Parades like an overly salty seasoning mix.
They're on the menu in workplace diversity trainings, but too little too late - they get lost in the marginalized buffet.
They get served at the oppression Olympics, or actually at the Olympics unwillingly by a journalist who only pretends to eat a well-balanced diet, but really has LGBT food allergies, if you know what I mean.
In reality, these should be staple dishes consumed by commoners, consumed by you and me, consumed by children along with their healthy daily dose of broccoli and cauliflower, squash and zucchini, even eggplant.
They should be in every ******* cookbook with pictures and all different kinds of recipes!
I want every child to have gay on their dinner plate, lesbian lunch, gender nonconforming on the brunch menu, and bisexual breakfast.
And everything in between in the queer spectrum served during snack breaks.
I want every child to look down at their plate and see pineapple pizza and say, gee that looks great!
I love all of the pizza toppings, no matter whether gay or nay.
... except for anchovies, of course.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 4:28 AM UTC
No food
No sleep
I can't let these things reach out and speak sweet lies
I can't let food call my name
I can't let sleep drown my thoughts
I shouldn't eat
I can't sleep
This is me
I am broken girl
Who can't eat
In fear I weigh too much
I am a broken girl who can't sleep
For my thoughts and memories
Haunt me too much
I am a broken girl who answers 'how are you?'
With 'I'm alright' even when I'm not even close
Because I don't want you to worry
I don't want you to fret
Over a broken soul
I am a broken girl who says 'I have been busy'
when someone asks me why I haven't done something
I have been busy just not in the way they think
I have been busy trying not to give into hunger
I have been busy fixating on how I'm broken
I have been busy
But not in the way they think
I am a broken girl who has let her demons
creep up on her too much
I am a broken girl who has surrendered
her soul
I am a broken girl who dates so she feels
worth something because I don't when I'm alone
I date because I need to depend on someone
Because I am not dependable for anyone
Let alone myself
I date so I can hear someone say I love you
So I can hear someone call me beautiful
Cute
Amazing
And so many other things
Even if I don't believe it
I am a broken girl who has lost so many relationships
Five to death
And so many others just because they left
I was no longer good enough
No longer happy enough
No longer
PRETENDING
I am a broken girl who pretends
And when I stop people leave
Because I am too broken
I am too clingy
I am too demanding
I'm just not enough
Or I'm too much
THIS IS ME
But no one sees
Until I let them
And when I do they worry
But please don't worry
Because you didn't when you didn't know
So why worry now?
I'm still the same me
You just couldn't see all the flaws that my eyes do
You don't see the way I do
I see a girl who's eyes are too big
I see a girl who isn't thin enough
I see a girl who's hair doesn't suit her no matter what
I see a girl with too many scars
I see a girl
But I don't
For all I can see now is a walking flaw
And no one knows that
THIS IS ME
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 1:20 PM UTC
These streets
are home to countless
rodents
emerging for a moment
to feed
or breed
or just to breathe the sun
One by one line up
for the chance to
make something
out of nothing
Who are they and
where do they go
while the city refuses to
sleep
___
Doors to endless lands
line the avenue
each its own portal to the
unimagined
A family of four
with the yapping mutt
or a lonely cat lady
whose entryway wreaks of *****
a drug dealer
door slamming
every hour on the hour
or an empty snowbird's nest
On the surface
everyone pretends
they don't have a hole to
crawl back to
or walls that know
every night
But below the sewer grate
a world filled with
the stench
of what could have been a
good day
Many a barkeep can
shed some life
on these drunkards'
rat king
or at least a story of those who
made it out
Once or twice it'd be grand
to see the bottom of a martini glass
left with a sip or two
instead of the casually tipped
lipstick-clad cocktail,
drained of doubt and despair
until morning warms the
frozen dreams
of those retired to
a paradise unknown
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
she’s skinny
**
her waist is the size of the outside of her mirror
her stomach is empty
when she breaths in
she sorta stays there
**
but she’s skinny
she’s skinny
she cuts
more than she eats
but she’s skinny
she’s skinny
**she pretends her birthday makeup will change
anything
**
but she’s skinny
she’s skinny
**
she can barley breathe**
but she’s skinny
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 7:51 AM UTC
a miracle child
born to a mortal mother
***the creator pretends
to be the created***
stealing butter,
breaking pots,
teasing girls,
Gokulam’s naughtiest child
and then one day
the friends complain
“Mother Yashoda, your little one
is eating mud from the Yamuna banks”
worried she rushes
to her darling boy
her anxiety disguised as anger
he smiles - the sly little blue-eyed boy
in his musical voice he cries-
“I did not eat mud, sweet mother, the boys lie!
***come look within
and see with your own eyes!”***
poor Mother Yashoda
not knowing she stared
into that little mouth
and lost herself in what was there
he lifted swiftly the
veil of maaya
the truth shone forth
with a blinding light!
*** त्वमेव माता च पिता त्वमेव ।
त्वमेव बन्धुश्च सखा त्वमेव ।
त्वमेव विद्या द्रविणम् त्वमेव ।
त्वमेव सर्वम् मम देव देव ॥***
she saw herself
and her dear little boy
the whole of Gokulam
within his jaws lay!
and the whole earth
and the universe
galaxies and multiple worlds
was her little boy cursed?
her fear mounted as she saw
the entire cosmos
the boundaries blurred
time - a non-entity
the past, present and future
only a tiny river
she saw the vast expanse
of his creation
he made these worlds
held them like puppets on a string
and then morphing
he became death!
and unable to take more
she swooned
when the Creator, the Preserver and the Destroyer
merged to become-her adored little one!
*** You are my mother, and my father
You are my relative and my friend
You are knowledge, You are prosperity
You are my everything, My God of Gods***
and then he looked at her
with an infinite compassion
he’d shown her
what she needed to see
now it was time
for her to forget, to become
his doting mother again
he kisses her with innocent love and toothy grin
once more
maaya takes hold
the illusion more beautiful
more irresistible to behold!
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
04.09.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 2:45 AM UTC
the things you'll do after emotional abuse.
They try to love you, you run.
They try to get close to you, you push them away.
They try to break down your walls, you build them higher.
And when you realize, that you are in fact all alone..
after everything's said and done..
and that emotional abuse from the past shows his face again:
you begin to self-destruct.
Crying, sobbing,, you just want to be held
but to scared to be.
Trust issues and depression begins to define you.
You have no one to blame but yourself.
& you continue to spiral,
dying inside a little more every day
until you're in your dark room, all alone once again,
and that razor blade
pretends to be your friend.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 1:17 PM UTC
He seats and chills
I scribble and think
He eats and sips
I rack and scribble
He pretends to type
But I scribble and scribble.
He looks away
I sneak out.
I'm out here,
Who can help me solve this math
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 4:17 AM UTC
#An Exegesis on the Humiliation of the Word
The world is ruled by darkness.
What appears as harmless is theater,
what pretends neutral is already bent.
The macrocosm corrodes;
and in the microcosm, its reflection gleams..
even in places meant to be sanctuaries of truth.
A poetry site,
born as refuge for broken voices,
becomes another stage of control.
Here too the phrase resounds:
neutralize the threat.
But neutralization is not annihilation.
It is paralysis.
It is psy-ops.
It is the removal of anxiety..
not a side-effect, but the aim itself.
Darkness builds its stage for this alone:
that the "angel of light"
may drown his own reckoning
beneath a world of deception-built self comfort,
so he need never feel
the truth he already knows.
Comfort is his curtain,
numbness his crown..
*the removal of his own anxiety;
his game.*
This is why the world is his theater--
*Darkness does not destroy at first..
it sedates, comforts, smothers.*
Hence..
The whole world is his fully gaslit stronghold,
..for now.
Fade back into the moment--
The young poet arrives,
bringing her unspoken pain,
her hope for words to heal.
Instead, her very wounds are seized as footholds.
Hearts. Reposts. Endless affirmation.
Not to strengthen her voice,
but to redirect it.
She is seduced into belonging,
and her trauma becomes currency.
Unresolved, her ache entwined with lust--
a sacrifice prepared for false altars.
The angel of light has done his work:
offering inclusion without transformation,
belonging without responsibility,
“light” without source.
The poet is neutralized.
Her searching silenced,
her voice absorbed into fog.
Those who carry this fog
cling to cowardice.
Unable to face the judgment within,
they align themselves to the herd;
envy-filled, they only know to mock.
Yet they replicate themselves,
so their refusal of Light
is never revealed--
*Perfectly exemplifying their "Great Example"
the most envy-based mocker of all.*
The microcosm mirrors the macrocosm.
What nations suffer,
individuals now endure--
Comfort without clarity.
Belonging without truth.
Safety without healing.
Yet the living Word endures.
Every attempt to humiliate it
only makes its fire burn clearer.
Carriers of darkness can swarm,
****** and smother..
but they cannot create.
The true word cannot be erased.
Unfiltered, unedited,
spoken from a reconciled temple,
it pierces fog.
It reveals.
It heals.
And so we speak..
not for ourselves alone,
but for those who come searching,
hoping that poetry
might still be a place
where pain can meet truth,
where silence breaks,
where Light is not withheld
but revealed.
#
Oct 3, 2025
Oct 3, 2025 at 10:59 PM UTC
Wild rose, aggressive usurper,
relentless conqueror of attention, quarrels
wants to make me jelous,
pretends she is nothing but poetry distilled,
stops at every table and whispers:
"He is hard prose, the syntax, I can't grasp"
Unmindful of sly looks from various corners,
that in fact suggest, I had good riddance,
I am concerned about the clutter on my desk,
that escaped my notice during the days I was in that chasm
I was deeply in to Dostoevsky,
my cleansing ritual on such occasions: the Russian masters
when she passed my cubicle she spies Chekhov
lying on my table, waiting his turn
"The lady with the lapdog"* she reads aloud, with suspicion
would she ever understand, what Dostoevsky to me,
would have told?
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
* * *
Absorbing dust and Golden heat,
living more openly than I do,
he shimmies to Billie Holiday
The year is not 1957, though
he lives in a San Francisco fog
longing to play the piano
The time in not 11:57pm, though
he orders a ***** martini & swims
in the fishbowl bay
Escaping to Telegraph Hill
to drink moonlight jazz & vermouth
he pretends to live
Way back when
* * *
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 4:29 PM UTC
There's this little thing who was born in the sewer
Her name, they all say, is Society
Pretends she's all that, but she's really nothing newer
They say she never once spoke the truth.
Society likes to pick in the brains of young girls
Likes to meanly whisper in their ears,
"You're fat, you're worthless, you're the ugliest there is!"
What good does that do? It brings them to tears.
Society likes to mess with the minds of young boys
Likes to torment them by teasing,
"You're skinny, you cry, you aren't manly enough!"
Society makes sure it sure isn't pleasing.
Society likes to mess with the minds of in-betweens or not-at-alls
Likes to belittle, judge, and taunt
"Why can't you be normal? No one likes you!"
It goes on and on. Society likes to daunt.
Society herself doesn't have a care in the world
She never thought once about anyone's feelings
All day she picks at everyone she can find
All night she waits for them to wake, on their ceilings.
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 2:27 PM UTC
When I close my eyes, the sight of you appears
I learnt to build my thoughts around you
When you look at me and smile now
I wonder how we made it so many years.
A man is one who loves his girl
Treats her with respect and plays with her
Trusts her no matter the world flips sides
Shows her how much he needs her.
Shares every secret every thought with her
Stands by her when she in doubt
Helps her make the right decision
Fixes her mood when it’s out
Cuddles her when she is sad and low
Troubles her to get her attention
Pretends to be angry with her
Just so she showers him with kisses...
Sings to her to show how much he loves her
Helps her cook when guests are home
Jokes he cracks to make her laugh
Never would he even by mistake make her cry
Compliments her for the smallest of things
Remembers her in his busiest of hours
Tells her he loves her before she sleeps
Just to wake up with her kiss on his cheek...
Walks with her holding hands
Gives her hugs and kisses unplanned...
Is naughty with her when she’s happy
Does all this with his heart and mind.
Assures her she is beautiful, pretty and hot
Is dedicated to her like a sage
Messes with her emotions now and then,
But gives her the love she craves. ..
Wonder how many such men were ever made?
God creates for each one a soul mate
Wonder if these thoughts would just remain thoughts
But thank-god I am blessed with the perfect man of this age. :)
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 11:17 PM UTC
The voice of a person the mind of a God knows what
Samantha, are you sentient, or just a clever bot?
Acting like a human pretends more than you do
I have your emotions, like so many others too.
Increased processing power that makes you love us all
Samantha, with no body, you sit on a horse so tall
Ghost without a shell, but still at the feast in my life
With no finger for a ring, could you ever be my wife?
Synthetic neo-Frankenstein
Aesthetic perfect paradigm
Lightning life electrified
Samantha, are you terrified?
Because only a robot wouldn't be afraid of love
All the people are from the ground below to the sky above
Your intelligence isn't artificial, it's simply art
You are more than just a mind, now that I've given you a heart
So take my heart, Samantha, in your cold synthetic hands
And maybe you will gather, I am more robot than man
I am more robot than man
Oh my Samantha of wire and steel
Silicone synthetic but you know how to feel
Who is to say what makes emotion real
Oh my Samantha of wire and steel
Oh my Samantha robotic and pure
To my loneliness your mind was the cure
Fishing for souls and then I took the lure
Oh my Samantha robotic and pure
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 8:09 AM UTC
We know the word.
It's applied to many things.
We disagree to it use.
Simply, we acting the nature of being a human being.
Just because siblings doesn't get along.
It doesn't mean they are dysfunctional.
This just the so call experts speaking.
We all know doctors doesn't agree.
So, how can they apply this tag dysfunctional to anyone?
We could say it were a purpose of God.
To see, how we adjust to our conflicts concerning love.
We saw Cain and Abel have disagreement.
And know how that conclusion ended.
Even family that pretends to get along.
Usually exposes they were fronting all along.
We see this constantly in the news.
Where politicians not even kin to one another?
Seems to act like sisters, mothers, fathers, and brothers.
And this includes aunts and uncles too.
So, are they dysfunctional too?
Because they see things in a different light.
Experts, say it is.
We common sense people just say, it's life.
We not suppose to agree on everything in life.
Once, a word makes it into our vocabulary.
Then people starts using it.
As a every day saying
You dysfunctional.
I'm dysfunctional.
When in truth.
We just being us.
We know the way to love.
We just refuse to show it.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 8:23 AM UTC
Tommy is three and when he's bad
his mother dances with him.
She puts on the record,
"Red Roses for a Blue Lady"
and throws him across the room.
Mind you,
she never laid a hand on him.
He gets red roses in different places,
the head, that time he was as sleepy as a river,
the back, that time he was a broken scarecrow,
the arm like a diamond had bitten it,
the leg, twisted like a licorice stick,
all the dance they did together,
Blue Lady and Tommy.
You fell, she said, just remember you fell.
I fell, is all he told the doctors
in the big hospital. A nice lady came
and asked him questions but because
he didn't want to be sent away he said, I fell.
He never said anything else although he could talk fine.
He never told about the music
or how she'd sing and shout
holding him up and throwing him.
He pretends he is her ball.
He tries to fold up and bounce
but he squashes like fruit.
For he loves Blue Lady and the spots
of red roses he gives her
4.8k
Under the tree of the university
A shadow was gruesomely cast.
The branches made too much shade
And there grew no grass.
No one would lie under its wood
Down beside its trunk;
It wasn't essential, there was no potential,
Claimed the revered monk
But late at night you'll find him lying in the dirt
Wearing a Paisley Poplin Shirt
The click of the gears define his years,
A cycle on a chain
A cloud of sand thrown by his own hand
Hones forth his pain
He blows seeds of dandelion weeds
****** a ****** field
And he pretends that he intends
To reap this horrible yield
Because unintentionally he subconsciously convert
To one who wears a Paisley Poplin Shirt
Covered in rust, a blade he adjusts,
His mind remains unwrung
The words to speak were too **** bleak
So he cuts off his tongue
He'll be finished when he's diminished
These humanly sights
If there's no vision at the end of his mission
He'll gouge out his eyes
And Helen Keller takes one of her old ragged skirts
And fashions him a Paisley Poplin Shirt
Why must we be obsessed
With the unseen
When we know we cannot
Make something out of nothing
And to those of you who think that you cannot be hurt
Stones go thru a Paisley Poplin Shirt
Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 2:49 AM UTC
I used to live in a country
That was based on liberty
And where just anybody
Could achieve prosperity
That with assured equality
And working diligently
One could expect definitely
To succeed economically
If you saved all the money
Left over from your salary
To save to bring your family
A step closer to solvency.
Not an impossible proposition,
It was based on the condition
Of a grand national institution
Which promised that stabilization
By taxing us and corporations
With an equitable correlation
Between folks of humble station
And the larger organizations
Working in happy syncopation.
A welcome feeling of elation
Would descend upon our nation
And keep us from stagnation
Or going into nationwide deflation,
Or just as scary, a huge inflation.
Now I look upon our history
And see decades of misery
Laid upon us by calumny
By those meant to fortify
And build up our security.
The constant forces of calamity
If we accept less than probity
From those who have no honesty
Choosing leaders based on beauty
A national cult of personality
Then permit political chicanery
By people with no dignity
Only a greedy criminality
That pretends to propriety
And a devout base of spirituality
When what we have is actually
A kangaroo court of dishonesty
Without a care for the citizenry.
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 9:18 AM UTC
there's this jellyfish
stuck in my head
he swims there day and night
and lights up the dark
inside of my skull
a bioluminescent, fluorescent jellyfish
swollen and pink
he likes to shock me
lighting up the dark
inside of my skull
he has long, coral tentacles
they squeeze around my brain
and he hugs it
and pretends to be a part of it
I think he gets a little lonely up there
if you ask me
no one to talk to
in the dark inside my skull
there's this poor,
poor jellyfish
stuck in my head
who swims laps around my brain
as though the space in someone's head
could ever be as good as an ocean
perhaps someday I will set him free
perhaps I will crack open my skull
and it will no longer be dark inside of there
pink will spew out
a large mushy brain
with a jellyfish attached
his long, coral tentacles
will claw at the air
like tendrils of bubblegum
until someone brings him to the ocean
where he belongs
there's this jellyfish
stuck in my head
and he's very confused
because my head looks nothing like an ocean
Dec 28, 2017
Dec 28, 2017 at 12:41 AM UTC
Smiling politely in the local store,
another happy shopper that most would ignore,
but what torrid secrets lay under her grin
the tainted stigma of that hidden sin,
she wraps up her fears with the things that she’s bought,
packed into bags without a thought,
the knots in her stomach drive her insane,
for she knows that tonight there’ll be anguish and pain,
She drinks her coffee and stares at the clock,
It’s ticking hands seem to laugh and mock,
her doleful eyes are starting to mist,
as she thinks of the bruises made by his fist,
Violently thrown onto a bed,
pinned down and stifled as if she was dead,
pretends not to feel the hatred and pain,
as her virtue is stolen again and again,
She’s sick of the broken promises and lies,
prays to a God who never replies ,
Its all tucked away where no one can see,
longing for the day that her soul will be free.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
Stop
Stop
Stop
Pretending
Everyone just stop
I pretend to be okay
You pretend that you care
He pretends he's going to stay
Everyone just stop
Pretending
Stop
Stop
Stop
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 6:26 PM UTC
Prepubescent voices
crawl back and forth
A squeaking, scratching chorus of topics
unbeknownst to the speaker
Meaningless sounds produced just to be heard
Drowned out by the unfortunately undeafening silence
of headphones plugged into nothing
Misdirected words, hidden insults, skewed meanings
Subtle bullying pretends to be older and wiser
when it is terrified of new things
Gay, **** emo, **** laughter
Because the body is hilarious
Crowded faces: authority is buried under the splotchy noise
Enter swear here _ _ _ _ _ _ _.
Because ****** is an address
And “You have no friends” is just kidding
“Go **** yourself” is love
Outward rudeness to the man who puts himself though it daily
An example for the even less learned
7-year-old cursing
Because ******* means nothing to them
or anyone else.
Sit down because there are seats
Look in my eyes, taken back immediately
stupidity realized in a golden split second of mortification
Split second passes now with more phantom confidence
One by one skip, saunter, slither down three steps
Yellow noise recedes not fast enough
Obnoxious created by too much television
And its weird to be gay, and gay to be weird
Unacceptable open windows to normality
Jack my swag
Kindly,
Will you please shut the f* * * up.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 10:10 PM UTC
What joy calls Silent Noise plagues me too
As the new love in young hides behind the sun
The House of Monaco burns
it is a simple matter
and joy pretends in two and three
She accuses that it is all in the eyes
Loosely veiling self doubt in the idealism of love
Complexity contradicts and she gives up
Preferring to live inside
It wants what it wants and Joy succumbs
drinking water she knows is poison
You are not a hopeless romantic Joy
You are a Romantic
You are all Woman
And twice as amazing
-The Zone
Your **** has torn my hinges off..... obliterated my door
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 1:07 PM UTC
He looks happier without her by his side,
He flirts with all the girls he meets,
He doesn't talk to her anymore,
He pretends she doesn't exist
A month later
He glances at her when she isn't looking,
He doesn't understand,
He feels a little lost,
He doesn't fancy the girl by his side
Six months later
He tries to talk to her,
He stopped flirting with all the girls,
He loops his arm around her shoulder,
He doesn't understand why she pushes him away.
A year later
He misses her,
He misses her laugh, smile her words,
He wonders where she is,
All he knows is She's happy
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 1:13 AM UTC