"reread" poems
That got your attention
Didn't it?
Even though I am a stranger
Who couldn't possibly know it to be true
And worth is subjective
Arbitrary
Those who know you would disagree
And point out your merits
And you would weigh yourself
To realise that not all parts are equal
Who am I to say such things?
And yet you take the time to read it
Reread, incase you misread
In reading you contemplate it's truth
You are my puppet, and me your puppeteer
How could you be such a sheep!
Why are you amused?
Why does insult carry more meaning than praise?
It's easy to hurt.
Sticks and stones may break your bones
But words can make you think you deserved it.
We are social beings and so
We look for validation
But insult stands out
It leaves a branded mark in our brains
And so we spotlight it
Unfairly
Unjustly
It's easy to be sad.
But it's fulfilling to be happy.
Being positive is hard
But it's worth it in the end.
How could I possibly know?
I couldn't.
But I do.
And soon you will too.
What are you doing now?
You are reading!
Now you are smiling.
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 9:11 PM UTC
The evolution of art never halts
Once we began dancing around fire
Our feet couldn't stop
A place in our lives
Where our subpar seeds
Could be seen as glowing trees
That's the way I feel about my poetry
It reminds me a lot of me
I reread it and rewrite it so often
By the end it seems unoriginal and plain
And all I can hope
Is the themes and ideas that were the inspirational genesis
Remain intact
Art walks a tightrope over the most unpredictable factor
The audience
They are the other half of art
Their power cannot be overstated
And as time progresses
Their power grows
And the importance of art always extends an equal distance
But the stronger art becomes
The more it asks of it's audience
In many cases
The audience is not ready to take the call
This is one of those times
Here at the current pinnacle of art
Surfing the web
A wonderful chance as
Art is a reflection of people and society
The Internet is people and society
But just as we listen to songs
To decide what concert to go to
Or watch trailers
To decide what movie to see
We like what we like
And put blinders on to find it
Like moths to fire
We could do amazing things
If we could harness the potential
Of our collective conscious
But the threat of losing our individuality
Is too great for us
Unable to accept
Our individuality is always in the context of our cosmic existence
We are part of something greater
And we can't escape that
Even in death
We feed what lies beneath
The memory of our lives
Shrinks to obscurity
The maggots that cover our corpses
Flourish to maturity
Everything this world creates is art
And we are it's most complex creation
Not necessarily the best
We just have the most parts
And the maggots that use our dead bodies for sustenance
Were once the monsters that roamed this Earth
They had no nationality
Or political affiliations
Or religion
And they're still here
Waiting to reclaim their throne
Once "smarter" species seek suicide
Jul 26, 2017
Jul 26, 2017 at 10:19 PM UTC
We are who we are
We love who love us
We love who hate us
We love our Gender
Call us Girls
Call us women
Call us Ladies
We are TransWomen
Stop being confused
Stop being surprised
Stop calling us He or It
We hate that pronoun
We are females we as others
We deserve our rights like others
We deserve love and affection
We deserve Respect like others
We are tired of your nicknames
"Is a he or a she", "what is this?"
It hurts please stop stop stop!
We are fine ladies! Full stop !
You scared our fellow ladies
They are crying in closet
They are lonely in families
Because we are Transgenders!
Stop abusing my brothers
They men and so proud to be
Don't be confused by what you see
A transMan is a powerful Man!
Respect them now and forever
Stop calling them ladies or things
They are men **** and classy
They are men always and forever
See us slaying down town
We are lovely and attractive
We know who we are friends
You can't change us Sit down!
Don't be confused by Breast
That the **** chest of our brother!
He is strong enough to be proud
We love our bodies and gender
We won't hide because you hate us
The more you see us feeling proud
The better you understand us
We are Proud Transgenders!
We ladies need our Freedom
Government think about us
All women are equal in the country
We need all care and attentions!
Stop calling us Monsters
We are human beings
We deserve our Rights
We are citizens like others!
This ain't western culture
This ain't Sodoma and Gomollah
This is the gender of Us
We are Proud Transgender people!
Pastors stop that hate preach
That hell you need us to go in
That Sodoma you always sing
All were from Those Bibles
If you accuse all LGBTI people
To bring back ***** or Gomollah
First remember that bible you read
Was brought by Evangelists
We had gods and goddesses
Africa knew no White God
We had Love and respect
Read , reread and Rereread!
Love wins and will win
You are taking us nowhere
We are here to stay and slay
Ourselves Genger our Pride
We are done by your hate
Is our time to shine bright!
You gonna hate us today
And you will love us later!
TransWomen are women
TransMen are Strong men
Transgender is a Gender
Respect us we hurt no one!
"Transgender Right is Human right
TransWomen are women too
TransMen are men as well
We claim no war but our Freedom
We claim no hate but our Respect"
Poet : Skylar G Peter
Poem: we Are Proud Transgender people
May 6, 2018
May 6, 2018 at 4:15 AM UTC
staring at the blank page
i find myself thinking
quite low of myself.
wondering to myself
absently muttering out loud
as if adding more sound
to the white noise
will give me a sense of validation
that i still exist.
the hum of the laptop
and turquoise hexagon sun
mixes with the sound
of the car doors closing outside
and the people sitting
in their chairs, lazing about
staring at the television screens
what else can i hear?
closing my eyes, i stop
taking a moment
to let my worried mind rest
forgetting about my financial crisis
to bathe in the sound
of my silence.
with my eyes closed
i type with confidence
i don't fear my words
when i can't see them
my eyes feel hot
under my dark eyelids
as heavy as they are
i am surprised i don't
slouch and fall into slumber
right here in my chair.
in the second it takes
to flutter open my eyes
and reread the words i just wrote
i have to remember
to stop myself before i nitpick
and change what came
from my heart
and at the time felt right.
if only
i went through life like this more often
then maybe i wouldn't feel so down
or hard on myself
because honestly i'm not that bad
nor am i as dumb
or silly as i feel
and maybe next time
when i go ice skating
i won't be such a little *****
about how i look to other people.
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 9:07 PM UTC
My Solace
when every aperture is a tunnel narrowing,
a light pin diminishing when nearing,
when the desk drawer yields up unused theater tickets,
for performances concluded yesterday,
when the denouement is nothing new but worse,
revealed in the coming attractions trailer,
when the rusted unborn poem notion is almost done,
but remains unpublished,
for no beginning, no title, can be found,
Then I recall the cornucopia days,
when poems spilled forth like
there would never be a when they wouldn't,
I revisit my old friends, couplets, twins and triplets,
seeded inside every tear, happy or sad,
sweetly and freely,
my old friends, reread,
words rearranged in new combinations,
old poems, plants bearing new fruits,
re-titled all of them, one name,
a collection entitled,
My Solace.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 3:59 PM UTC
I wish you were a book
my book
so that I could keep and read you
anytime I wanted to
and depart from the real world
for a while with you
I could take care of your cover
especially your spine
I promise not to judge
the cover, summary, and your story
I could flip through your pages
in able for me to
know your past
live in your present
and know what your future beholds
In your story if I stumble upon your
flaws, secrets, past, memories
no matter how awful it maybe
I'd still highlight all of the things
I admire about you
I would share your stories
how you've got a great adventure
with the best plot twists
and how you've overcome your fears
reached your goals
and made it through your struggles
I promise to put you on a special spot
in a bookshelf of all of my other books
you'd be my favorite one
I swear I could reread you over
and over and over
and over and over
and over and over
again
like you were the only book
that ever existed
I'd take you everywhere and anywhere
to also tell my story
and together we could make new memories
share the sunsets, sunrise, and watch the stars
because with you
I am truly happy
I wish you were a book
my book
how gently you let the ink flow
through your pages
for every word of each page
I've got it memorized
each phrase, line and quote
has got me hooked
with all the sweet things you've said
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 11:32 PM UTC
I can’t get your words out of my head
Syllable by syllable I’ve reread
Them a dozen times,
And now I contemplate why
And how I never knew
You felt how I do.
Oct 28, 2021
Oct 28, 2021 at 1:08 PM UTC
THEY broke into my storyline:
confections served were not so slight
still i missed out on YOU at first,
that trace YOU gave of sheer remorse
put that now in you head,
sweet THING!
my guilty pleasure feels like savoring.
a palate to transpire any doubts -
a skill of tiger on the prowl
it's the plot of a mindless fling,
i care for YOU to be within
though such acting's bound with letters' dire ******
i see YOU TWO again to have my bliss
i read YOU out,
i spell YOU!
then write YOU down
i read YOU out,
i spell YOU,
then write YOU down
it's been a while i had my click
with all the fluff i cared to think
i thought this time WE may never part,
but YOU are in the line with change of heart
it's the plot of a mindless fling,
i care for YOU to be within
though such acting's bound with letters' dire ******
i see YOU TWO again to have my bliss
i reread YOU out,
i spell YOU!
then rewrite YOU down
i read YOU out,
i spell YOU,
then write YOU down
Nov 22, 2022
Nov 22, 2022 at 3:21 PM UTC
I'm trading sticks of cigarette for a poem
Bottles of beer for a few more
Whiskeys make me forlorn
Why not a few more poems
So I scribble and scribble some more
I'm trading my loneliness for lines
Rhymed or rhymeless, why should I mind
When the please the eyes and tickles the mind
I sure will memorize and mimic them like a mime
So I'm still scribbling on this torn paper of mine
I'm trading my hearts pain
Trading it for a paper and a pen
Like a painter ready to paint
I deep my petite paint brush in a bowl of paint
Dap dap, little dots, strokes and dashes as I dare to paint
Little by little the whole picture is becoming plain
I'm trading all love's tears
Tears shade in secrecy for a poem shared publicly
Though seemingly absurd but poems brings this inconceivable peace.
So I'm scribbling and scribbling my way to serenity.
I trade it all for a piece of poem
I may not have made the point
But I've washed clean my plough
And starring at this beautiful not-so-beautiful poem
I have read and reread it that it is starting to sound like a song.
Reading one last time, "my best trade ever".
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 7:16 PM UTC
Redundancy.
I read my words
and I’m sickened,
that you had this
effect on me. I read
them and I’m fatigued
by the redundancy.
I have nothing to say
that hasn’t been said
in the same way
only reconstructed
to better play the illusion
of new ideas and
some sort of change.
There is always the basis
the substance of being
the substance being
my overactive feelings
and constant repression
of what makes me alive—
this feeds the depression
and I cry when I think
and I’m dead when I don’t
I’m lying when I speak
and lying when I don’t
I’m fighting every day
my feelings when I
have them, and finding
every day, I have more than
I can fathom, and I can’t
always put into words
how or why I feel things
so I tend to repeat
what comes naturally
and when I reread
I am exhausted by
my own redundancy.
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 2:50 AM UTC
my words soothings your ears.
musically..
but how do i prove them to your heart?
i failed to realize how to start.
i broke your heart.
confused your mind.
created broken art.
i reached your limits.
i never understood how to start?
now i see where you stand.
lost, hurt, probably?
destroyed.
now you see us apart.
i failed to realize how to start?
i realize it was me.. toxicity.
self-love wasnt in me.
destroyed me to destroy you.
i wasnt ready.
but i cnt let you go!
reread these words.
can you help us restart?
and make art!
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 9:35 PM UTC
Rainy days are where
I fold myself into a pillow
Wrap body in blankets until
I am a cocoon of warmth
Mismatched and look
Absolutely ridiculous
I proceed to glue
Myself to couch and
Reread every book I've ever
Loved until my eyes
Hurt from looking for
Too long and then
Watch movies that make
Me cry because the sky
Is also crying so
It's okay for me to do it too
Sometimes during a
Storm I will wallow in
Self-pity while filling my
Soul with macaroni and cheese that
Is shaped like characters
In order for children to
Like it better
I like it better too like that
On rainy days like today I
Don't go outside or
Leave the house because
I hate when my socks get wet
That is the worst
Thing in the world
Occasionally when it
Rains I will write every
Poem I have left inside of
Me because it is much easier
To pour out everything
When you are not the
Only one who is wringing dry
And empty
I wonder if the
Ocean likes storms
As much as I do
I've been meaning to
Ask but I keep forgetting to
It is a great excuse to
Stay inside and do
Nothing at all
I love doing
Nothing at all on days
Like today
Rainy days are when I can
Pretend it is always this
Loud and quiet at
The same time it
Is always too loud and
Too quiet but
Never at the same time
So I remain a
Curled ball of feelings
With the sound of
Nature behind me
Rainy days are
The only days
When it is considered
Okay to
Be this way.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 8:25 PM UTC
The fog here is thick, until you step into it.
The storm rages until you get to its eye.
I wish this same principle could be said of me, too.
But like a gas giant, you could slip right through me with
the smallest amount of pressure.
There is no calming sense of self at the core.
Gravity does not apply to me.
There’s a boat on the lake cutting through the fog. And then nothing.
More waves.
More birds.
The fog covers it all up again.
The sun slinks and the tide comes in, or is it out? Does it matter?
The moon controls it in some way—the push, the pull of the waves.
At least the lake looks blue today,
looks green today.
The geese are in the water now. The families are packing up.
The ice cream shop is closing.
And I do not remember if I was ever here with you.
This, of course, is a collective you.
Could mean you, my reader,
could mean one specific person,
or two
or three
or four;
could be whoever I'm thinking of when I reread this to myself.
That’s the funny thing about the litany of loss.
It all starts to congeal.
Waves crash against the rock. Starts to chip away, create something new.
That’s what memory does.
It’s not permanent. It’s malleable.
Flexible. Bendable. Moldable.
It smells like lakewater. Like
fish and sand and mud and
gulls and rocks and shells and
algae and fog—thick, thick fog.
Smell is supposed to be one of the biggest memory triggers, and yet
I cannot place a single memory of you here.
And that’s mildly crushing.
So I would take you here:
to where I wish the air was
saliter and less earthy.
to where I come sometimes to think.
where the clouds are so thick and puffy and
the setting sun makes them look like cotton candy on the Fourth of July.
where the sun’s reflection on the water
turns the green lake pink.
where the geese are back out of the water and
onto the shore.
I would take you here with me.
Into a new memory.
Homemade. Handmade. DIY.
Aug 24, 2021
Aug 24, 2021 at 12:46 AM UTC
People say I'm obsessive, and I wholeheartedly agree. I'd die for a favorite artist, and I reread stories I like until I hate them. I force myself to love every song performed by "my band", to a point where I'm not entirely sure which of their tunes actually earned their place in my heart.
It brings to mind a modern-Hebrew term, "protektzia". It can be translated as social leverage, or "pull". Protektzia is when you are related to the administrator of an elite high school, or when you're friendly with the secretary of a sought-after doctor. It's as if songs walk up to me and say, "hey, I know I'm not that great, but I was written by so-and-so!"
All that changes when old Depression drops by. Suddenly, things I cared so much for are meaningless. It's like quarreling with a close friend. Although, I don't hate my former faves so much as scorn them, for being silly enough to exist.
Why does depression do this to me? Because depression is the drainage of passion. As a cow needs to be milked and a dripping air-conditioner needs a bucket, what are obsessions if not an outlet for the passion contained in the heart?
But neither are necessary when the cow is dead and the AC off.
Thankfully, depression to me is a mood rather than a condition, and so I host frequent reunions with my beloved idols.
You are all invited!
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 7:27 PM UTC
My favorite book, you know,
the one I read over and over again,
the one I never get tired of talking about,
the one with the story that hits me the hardest,
the one that makes me think,
the book I can’t put down
and makes me say
“just one more page”
before I go to bed.
The book that I never want to end.
The cover is brilliantly put together;
colorful, eye catching, yet fragile,
It’s beauty is not only in the cover,
It lies deeper within its contents.
A story so spellbinding it puts
Harry Potter and company to shame.
Pages filled with a love, so magnificent
John Green’s characters can’t compare.
A story and adventure so wildly vast,
not even Jodi Picoult could keep up.
Here’s the dilemma
the book I love most
Is sifted through with a fine tooth comb
when really it does not need to be,
And the worst of this dilemma
Is when I came to the realization that
My favorite book of all,
The one I have read and reread,
scribbling notes in the pages,
memorizing my favorite quotes,
and putting my own heart and soul
into its existence,
is when someone borrows it
and never gives it back.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 11:43 PM UTC
4:21am
hi, how are you? i hope you're okay. hope you're doing fine. I'm sorry, I've just been thinking as always. you've never said it, but I'm sure you've thought: "you think too much"
4:24am
these past days haven't been going easy you know, and i think you know why. I'm sorry, you're just always on my mind.
4:25am
I'm sorry, it's kind of cold, the fan's on and windows' ajar. was just wondering if you'd hold my hands, I've never felt your hands before, and you've never felt mine. I'm sure they feel like silk, (soft and smooth).
4:26am
i miss you and I'm sorry i came by so late. sorry i didn't know you before. sorry i didn't know you before things changed. sorry that our situation is just not right.
4:28am
it's getting late and I should be sleeping, but i just read something and now i can't take my mind off you.
4:30am
have i ever told you that i love your smile, and there's this "quiet" thing about you that i love. i hope you keep smiling, hope no one ever makes you cry. hope that you're always alright. one of us has to be.
4:32am
i wished things didn't end the way they did. i didn't predict our ending like this. didn't even predict an ending.
4:33am
wish it wasn't so hard seeing you. wish things would go back to normal, wish i could turn back the time to when we first met. **** those were the best couple weeks of my life. i think they were the best for you too.
4:35am
i still reread our past conversations and they still make me laugh.
4:38m
it's getting late, and i don't know what to say. i love you? still do. and always will. true love never dies.
-h.s.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 10:40 PM UTC
I wear baggy clothes so that I can feel skinnier.
I reread all of the notes I've saved almost every night.
I write really loopy because it's hard for me to let go.
I close my eyes and imagine things, constantly.
I paint with black because colors are too interesting.
I rub my face when I'm stressed, or I claw at my skin.
I wear my hair over my face so I can't see people staring.
I hate liquid eyeliner, insincerity, and pomegranates.
I love being in the rain because it stings, cleans, drenches.
I want to either die young or marry young, always have.
I try to walk everywhere I go so I can lose more weight.
I wish I remembered how to be happy.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 4:26 PM UTC
If you knew I love you, would your heart change its beat?
If you knew how many nights I have stayed awake thinking of you, would you think of me too?
If you knew how many times I reread the words "I will always hold you close to my heart, no matter what.", would you reread mine too?
If you knew I cry over the fact that you're gone, would you come back?
If you knew that I put you up on one of my highest pedestals, would you rethink yours?
If you knew I hear those five words in my head constantly, would you hear them too?
If you knew how many times I have longed for your embrace, would you say you long for mine too?
Our last days with each other were magical and filled with love for me, were they for you too?
That move star hug, oh you know which one. The one where you were strutting down the senior walk out line filled with people and you just stopped about 6 yards away from me. Looked me straight in the eyes and opened your loving arms, not caring about your long time buddies on the side screaming your name. I booked it down that line of loud, sweaty, standing in shock teenagers and collapsed in your arms. You picked me up, spun me around, and with tears in your eyes you whispered those five words that changed my life forever... "I will always love you.". Do you remember now?
At your graduation party I was a goner. My mother came and talked to yours while I went down and said my final goodbyes. "It's never goodbye Big Sean." You whispered in my ear as I gave you a final hug. My mother was behind me when you said that. And when we got back in the car the first thing she said was "That boy loves you, I can see it in his eyes." finally it seamed like I wasn't dreaming and someone else noticed it too. They way you look at me rather than everyone else, even your girlfriend.
So do you see why my heart aches for you to come back, to love me?
If you knew I love you, would your heart change its beat?
If you knew how many nights I have stayed awake thinking of you, would you think of me too?
If you knew how many times I reread the words "I will always hold you close to my heart, no matter what.", would you reread mine too?
If you knew I cry over the fact that you're gone, would you come back?
If you knew that I put you up on one of my highest pedestals, would you rethink yours?
If you knew I hear those five words in my head constantly, would you hear them too?
If you knew how many times I have longed for your embrace, would you say you long for mine too?
Please say you'll do...
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
I just left your house and
counted the glowing, dotted lines
that passed by all too eagerly
The fluorescent paint
reflects the lights back to me
like the letter I passed to you
which you so hastily returned
A chipped away memory and
a winter kiss only dreamt of
finalize this draft of our
suspenseful novella
But I hear you have many of
these unfinished stories
pushed aside while you reread
the same old text
hoping that you can add to
the blank pages in the back
And while you study
those worn, yellow pages
you leave behind
a library of fortune
too late to discover
With a flick of the thumb
and a twist of the wrist
these missed adventures become
glowing embers on the asphalt
a fading memory in my rear-view mirror
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 7:26 AM UTC
Tossing the pigskin
Burrowing and displaying the Ostrich effect
All applause for the chairman of the board of trustees
And all the spiddle on his back up shirt
Mortify them
An incomplete pass
Rally the troops
For unfinished business
Shift gears
Reread the post script
"P.S. The unzipped flies of store owners trying to replicate the success of their fathers. Piddle about, play with implements of torture, instruments of destruction. Wander in the wilderness, grunt and sigh as your civilized brain rattles. Make way for Plan B, and fill out the forms in triplicate. Fumbling at the controls, emergency landing. The gear shift and crankshaft have given out. Listen to the titillating chatter of the disappointed passengers who all longed for the window seat.
Always your's
Edmund Balthazar "
Take two
I could slap you
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 8:59 PM UTC
An impossible world
is a world that can be-
free of deadlines or limits
or lies mortals see.
A planet collides
with a dragonfly’s wings
while roses run laps,
and a daffodil sings.
To share a new language
one first ought to teach
the correct way to listen,
then, maybe, some speech.
Peel open an apple
to get to its core,
and reread the pages
you’ve not seen before.
From the depths of the mountains
and heights of the sea,
if it is written,
thus shall it be.
Mar 9, 2010
Mar 9, 2010 at 3:41 AM UTC
If she asks you
If she asks you who I am, tell her. Tell her
because she is not starting a fire for an explanation but a confession.
If you tell her I was just a girl you dated
for a couple of years, she will only give you a hard time.
The hundreds of photos tagged in your outdated profile and the stack
of books with our names written will be her allies.
If you tell her I was an old friend, she will only hear
half of what you say. She will recall how you looked at places
with a tinge of regret and a shade of nostalgia. She will remember
how you skipped a certain song ― a reminder of something you’ll find an excuse
not to tell her every time the car radio is on.
If she asks you who I was, lie a little,
because she is not crossing the line for answers but for assurances.
Don’t tell her how our lips played with poetry and how we dared
to dream under the light of the taciturn satellite. Skip the part where we
fought dragons together and how we named each other’s scars.
Reserve the fact that you still keep the letters, notes, old restaurant receipts under
your drawers and some tearstained thoughts at the back of your pillow. She doesn’t need to know
why you reread past conversations or why your mother mentioned me at the family dining table
just to ask you what I have been up to.
Finally, if she asks you who I was to you, tell her you love her. Put her in the limelight
because she is testing you to pull the trigger pointed at her
But you won’t. Instead, you will tell her she’s beautiful to compensate
for the words you never had the guts to tell me. You will tell her she’s a keeper, for the hell of it.
You will tell her a poor research about human cells being replaced after seven years so that one day,
I will leave no trace on your body.
She will then forget that you mentioned my name while sleeping. She will wash the lipstick stains
on your bedsheets and remove the extra toothbrush in the shower. She will ignore the way you twitch
every time you hear a familiar author or my favorite curse word. She will fill the spaces
of your fingers and plaster kisses at the holes of your chest. She will replace every scent of me
with her own promises, insecurities, and mistakes.
She will do this. She will, because when she asked you about me,
she knew I was the ghost of the house. And at the back of your head, you wanted to tell her
that the ****** no longer need saving. But by all means,
darling, she can try.
—
A. A. Dizon
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 2:41 AM UTC
i. you will miss him in drizzles and monsoons, in swells and tsunamis. you will listen to his favorite song for hours; it will hit you every unexpected moment. it will hurt, stab, ache, and you will suppress constant screams with strained lips.
ii. you will collect everything he gave to you and wonder if it is dimensionally real. you will sleep in his shirts, retaste saltwater kisses, and reread conversations as if there's something you missed the previous thirty times. absence does not make the heart grow fonder; it rips it apart and you cannot stitch the ragged halves with no thread.
iii. you will feel his touch presently in everything you do. it will be soft and cruelly comforting. it will constantly and inescapably linger. it will haunt you in early rainy mornings and dark lonely evenings.
iv. you will read endless musings on love and philosophy. you will entirely understand foucault's prison. you will live in steinbeck's tide pools and stars, and relate to simon bolivar trapped in his labyrinth. you will wonder why everything is like this, ugly and broken (and also if you are becoming delusional).
v. you will drink tea that scalds your tongue and stand outside on freezing nights, numb and overfeeling at the same time. you will ask the silent moon a thousand questions. you will see him and blink, head swimming, heart pounding in surges. the stars will wink and the wind will mock you.
vi. you will have blissful afternoons you forget and sorrowful nights you remember. it will still consume you in bouts, devour you in spells. nighttime will become both your enemy and remedy: it will wickedly remind you, yet help you heal.
vii. you will try and fail to make sense of him (and the universe in general). you will grapple with reality and yourself. perhaps you will never know why he stopped loving you: you will keep wondering how some things can just be left broken.
iix. slowly, slowly, you will sprout on your own; you will be tender and nearly whole. most importantly, you will realize his love brought you an entirely different kind of happiness.
ix. you will stop worrying and trying to piece together an empty puzzle. even the deepest scars find their way of fading. your mom was right: stop picking at the scab and your wound will heal.
x. you will learn to love yourself in ways he never could have loved you.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 2:35 AM UTC
I reread the same books over and over
And I don't care how many reasons you have to hate the series
These books are like people
Sure, they have flaws
But I love them for everything they are
I see their beauty, not their mistakes
I will always love them
Because they were my escape
When everything was crumbling
They were my friends
When people weren't
And rereading them
Reminds me
Of how beautiful it was
To escape
I don't care if you hate them
Just like people, if you don't like them, leave them alone
No on is forcing you to associate yourself with them
You don't need to go around spreading news about their flaws
Because you have many of your own
My emotions
Are connected to those books
Because they saved my life
So leave them alone
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 11:59 AM UTC