"romanticizing" poems
do not date a girl
who writes.
she will internalize
everything,
carve poems
into your eyelashes
instead of
kissing them,
she will analyze you,
calculate age
from the rings
your coffee cup
leaves
instead of refilling it.
she will memorize
the way your
lips curl around steam,
but not that you
take it
two sugars,
no cream.
she will read your
palm instead of
holding it
against her chest.
she will not
blink
when you leave,
because she is
already
romanticizing it.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
I was going to write you something
that embodied our love, some
infinitesimal prose about
your name click-clacking off of
my tongue or your eyes
when you're smiling.
I was going to answer all of
the questions that are silently ticking
inside your mind and scrawl
perfect prepositions across the page
so that your hands might
falter as they traced the corners.
I wanted to tell you about
the tug of your presence or
the way that your fingerprints
feel against mine,
but I'm writing this instead,
listing off the beauty that I feel
seeping into my skin and
it doesn't really make sense
but that's just the way it falls
onto the paper, bit by bit.
sad things, serenade me.
I'm only romanticizing
the madness of it all.
I never asked to be
a ******* poet.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 10:10 PM UTC
I fell for your smile,
Laugh,
and your eyes.
As I attempt to avoid romanticizing your image,
I will try to see you for what you did,
Not who I imagine you'd be.
I fell in love with the thought of you,
The thought of us.
But I cannot afford to get hurt,
Due to mere fact I fell in love with an idea,
Not a person.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 11:18 PM UTC
romanticize our problems
until they are colored in pink and purple hues
baby blue mornings filled with you
fantasize our perfect life together
what if reality is the fake
coffee, music, and solitude can be found
any Saturday safely in your arms
awoken by kisses soft and gentle
until clothes end up getting lost somewhere
dancing around the living room
in our pajamas, without masks on
I wish this was still true
but this is not reality, this is not truth
this is me romanticizing past loving
like dreaming of Paris in the rain
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 1:24 PM UTC
1. You can't be good at everything.
2. Someone will always care for humanity, when everyone else have given up.
3. Not everyone will love you.
4. Words can feel like daggers.
5. Romanticizing pain won't make it hurt any less.
6. Hating your father won't change him.
7. You're worth more than just a ****** being.
8. Perfection is an unreachable goal.
9. Not everyone is out to get you.
10. Trusting someone doesn't mean there's a lower risk of them leaving you.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 8:42 AM UTC
people romanticize self-harm
as if it's nothing special
and really, no one is alarmed
everyone's stopped being careful
it's not just about the blood
it really eats your heart out
the suffering makes your head flood
and everything seems so loud
you can't just seek pitiful attention
saying "oh, look, i'm depressed"
you really do deserve a lecture
because the real deal would say so much less
cutting ruins your body
it also pierces your soul
you seek a friend or just anybody
but you always end up alone
the cup of coffee in the morning
is the only thing keeping you alive
the rest of the time you're crying
trying to get thoughts out of your mind
you've got a stash of blades
hiding under your bed
today your sister got engaged
and you might end up dead
you try to down twenty pills
with a chug of burning *****
maybe then you'd see flowery hills
but it's just likely to cause you trauma
you stare at your own blank wall
trying to find a slimmer of hope
and nobody's there to watch you fall
as you exit this life with some dope
Aug 23, 2015
Aug 23, 2015 at 4:27 PM UTC
there is nothing i love more
than being
a girl
i love the way i speak,
with slang only teenage girls use
i love wearing dainty clothes,
feeling beautiful wearing them
i love collecting,
knick-knacks, records, crystals
above all
i love
the wonder of girlhood
romanticizing my life
perceiving my monotonous existence,
as a life worth writing about
Dec 4, 2022
Dec 4, 2022 at 9:53 PM UTC
"You're really good at poetry!"
"ha, I'm good at romanticizing toxic situations"
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 8:44 AM UTC
I need to stop romanticizing the past.
I'm walking backwards instead of forwards.
Your name still comes to me in the night
and clings to my sheets like you did once long ago.
But if Gatsby had let go of the green light
he would have lived.
I want to live.
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 12:26 PM UTC
question: do we lose ourselves in the midst of romanticizing or do we unravel our true selves.
response: do we lose who we are in the idealistic view of our romantic quests or do we unveil a trait of ourselves that has been there all along? hiding behind the perfect life you saw yourself having before your heart shattered in little tiny pieces when your utopian view took on another perspective. recognizing yourself in a dark state that was clouded by your 'cherry-kissed' outlook on love, you see who you really are. the good, the bad, and the ugly transformed into the hopeless romantic who has only experienced their first heartbreak to then examine every characteristic of themselves and determine if they were 'in the wrong'. your romantic expectations turning you into someone you're not is the controversial topic. but what if it was just the romanticizing that grounded you and brought you back to reality? what if it was the romanticizing that expressed your honest self? what if it were for all of the childhood fantasies and teenage dreams that helped you realize who you want to be with? what if it were for all of the traumatic experiences and unfulfilled relationships that helped you realize the person you truly are.
-mxy
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 9:45 PM UTC
I’ve never found charm in speaking
words that you don’t mean
or falling over sentences
struggling with broken speech
the same way that I have never found home
in the body I call mine
that internal war I fight
between my heart and between my mind.
The world will never understand
why I tremble in daily conversation
I cause confusion in my thoughts
skipping over words in trepidation
But miscommunication then turns to judgement
without a second glance
and your lack of hesitation destroys me
tracing it’s steps into my one woman war
Well isn’t that just like your fears,
setting you up for failure?
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 3:33 PM UTC
We are all hypocrites,
passionate on
crime, *** and drama
We are all hypocrites,
building our
two-dimensional dioramas
We think fast,
our half-witted brains
conniving
We talk fast,
our foolproof tongues
praising
We love to hate others,
and bask in the glory
of their demise
We hate to love our brothers,
for all our speeches
are mem'rized
Stepping stones from naivety
Our vainglorious insanity
Romanticizing reality
The hand that
feeds us
is our enemy
When will this stop?
iamthe_avatar ©2016
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 6:34 PM UTC
TELL THE MOON SHE’S BEAUTIFUL every time you see her:
in the too-early mornings when the sun is starting to rise,
in the late afternoons when she’s settling in the clear sky.
Tell the moon she’s beautiful, that she’s more than just a reflection of the sun’s light.
Tell the moon she’s beautiful even when she is bathed
in the red bloodstone shine of starry brethren.
Tell her she is beautiful even when she hides herself in phases.
Notice when she’s gone.
Look at the constellations and tell her that you miss her. She’ll hear it anyway.
Pepper her with compliments to lure her back to her full glory.
Howl with the wolves in your adoration.
Has she made you nocturnal?
How late do you stay up staring?
Is she brighter than any star in your sky?
Tell the moon that she is beautiful—
tell her how she lights up your nightlife.
Tell the moon that she is beautiful.
Tell the earth that she deserves better—
that she and the moon are beautiful,
too beautiful for your ink-stained fingertips.
Tell the earth that she is stunning,
from her deepest oceans and across every mountain.
When you tell the moon that she’s beautiful, sign each love letter with Mother Nature’s signature.
Seal the envelope with kisses of sun rays,
and send your words up to the sky on the backs of meteors.
Tell the universe
that she
is beautiful.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 11:16 PM UTC
I am clueless as to how I have dug a hole in this concrete ground, 60 feet deep. The dust I’ve been choking on does not bother me no more, layers piling upon my lungs like snow upon an exposed carcass. The slightest upheaval of my chest and tingling in my lungs reminds me that I still breathe. I’ve met scaffolds of bones down here. As I stare into their hollow sockets, I could never figure if they were ever esurient for something I held. They taught me how the ocean is never blue but only a de facto reflection of the sky. They said many mistook the sea for the sky, but never once mentioned the salt that contaminated their lungs- the impetus that drove their feet 60 steps into the waves. A reconciliation it must have been. I doubt it made any difference, when their hearts were bleeding out; a pity it doesn’t make it any lighter. Down they sank.
I wonder if I mistook these soils for the sky. As I looked up, I realised that the sky only seemed further away. There’s something peculiarly comfortable down here, the little bumps on the walls and contours of the craters looked like jawlines of a new-found friend. The sun is so blindingly high in the sky. I preferred how sometimes I could see the man in the moon- shadows cast by imperfections on the moon’s surface. In the vague moonlight and scrawny silhouettes, the fact that the moon always has a dark side makes it tangible a thousand miles away. Sometimes, I lay on this wooden receptacle discovered upon excavation and gaze at the empty skies with my friend as he tells me what lies outside this trough. Happiness is a pack of hungry wolves and when they are done, you are left with only your marrows. I see things clearer down here, than above where they are smothered by smoke from the trees they burned to the ground. Sometimes the skies are dark with no hint of dusk, sometimes the sky is filled with white nebula; but most of the times, the days are shorter than the nights. But it never gets any darker down here.
I figured I could never mistake this hole for the sky. I was just chasing these broken pieces like I used to chase happiness. I have no idea how I’ve gotten this deep while trying to pick up these pieces that I don’t recognise. But the struggle tells me it’s real, and the pain keeps me awake. They say if you spend enough time with someone, you will fall in love. I guess that’s what happened between sadness and me.
I’m staying here.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 4:09 PM UTC
What is artistic expression how do put my soul on a page
How do I stroke my aura’s color if I can’t see it
How do paint my humor and intentions
How do I draw my unbalanced chakras back to balanced and write the energies surging through channels
How do I chalk out my thought process when I am reminded of you
Walkie talkies hidden ontop my chalkie chakra blocked like telephone lines hit by drunk drivers or blackouts during storms
Sunshine burning mustard seething weekend breeding burnouts coming out of retirement like
My soul color bleeding rainbows with big blocks of grey in between Needing the contrast Needing the depth and blurred complications the world is not black and white we all bleed the same rainbow sparks into the same riverbeds breathing and exhaling with the time ticks of our existence of light reflected on the glitter trickled surface of the vibrations of our soul speaks ricocheting through galaxies for eternity.
Can’t phrase anything right
In come spiraling thoughts stories of me stories of we can’t help but trip I fall into thee mother Luna romanticizing the waves of the sea you rub my jaw with your hipster b
Crown king we’re being free
We’re trying queen
Forgot the beauty in the cold
Blackened hearts should walk boldly
Frozen on mountaintops trying to keep our souls warm
Broken and torn plastic bag in the wind escaping entities that block their flow
Exhausted on faking
Keep breaking from trying to make it
Ain’t no fun to be around
I keep all my words in my mouth
The devils got my tongue
I’m feeling numb
All my existence is to ***
I can’t get up out of the ******* ground
Years go by
I’m not feeling myself
Tears come out of me like a leaking spout
No drugs can bother me
My head belongs in the clouds
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
I am not a pretty girl. Never have been. I’m a little rough around the edges, I speak too loudly, and I cry when I’m angry. I tried, you know, to be less volatile, less opinionated, less of anything. Whittled myself away until I was nothing but a wisp of a girl, complicit in my own destruction.
I lost myself somewhere between the ages of 13 and 15. Somehow, a quiet sadness had seeped into my skin until it was unbearable- an obesity of grief. But here’s the thing: I was not a tear-stained girl romanticizing the idea of pain. I was angry. And cold. And mean.
But then I found myself one morning after it had rained. Quietly, without waking my family, I slipped into the cool morning air. I danced in the rain, the grass under my feet and the morning sun warming my face felt new, exciting, and it was all mine. I found myself in sips of earl grey tea, a book on my lap, devouring the words as if they were a life raft on a tumultuous sea. I found myself while watching the sunrise on a foggy beach. It was beautiful the next day, too, and I pulled a rusty bike from the garage, and thought to myself, “I’m going to be alright.” Because I found myself on a run in the pouring rain, the sweat and aching lungs reminding me of my own mortality. I found myself in the quiet, shy smiles of strangers in coffee shops and curious children. I found myself while driving dangerously fast on the highway in the middle of the night. Laughter escaping my mouth as the lights of the city flew by. I have laughed and cried and sang and danced and all of it is because I found myself after hiding for so long. I found myself because I finally had the guts to scream “hello, world. I’m here.” I grabbed life like a face between my palms, and I said “yes, I will love you again.” It’s not a charming face, nor a beautiful smile. But yes, I will love you again.
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 6:43 PM UTC
I have gnawed your name onto the inside of my cheek
Like carving love notes on willow trees
And I have painted your portrait on the back of my eyelids
Romanticizing the outline of your jaw
Like an artist would his brush
And my skin remembers every brief moment when
Your hand and would brush against mine
Like the leaves on the willow tree
With your name
Carved into
Its bark
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
My mind keeps pictures of you up on its walls
again
and again
I find my thoughts drifting down that river of memory
orbiting around you, like forces of gravity drawn
to the idea of us (if there even is an us)
If I could then I’d lock you outside my brain, leave you out there to rot
in the abyss, where your words couldn't penetrate me
and your lips that work like anesthesia forbidden to numb me again
I won't do you the injustice of romanticizing your imperfections
You're no nebular, you're a black hole, a gaping flaw in creation
Your eyes that held millenniums of history, now hold me no future
You made me forget what it feels to have stability
To not walk out of a room and forget why I left
You make me want to shred the skin you touched
Like a reptile, to become reborn, purified from my past.
There never were any butterflies in your stomach, only parasites
but you fed them to me readily like a disease
So no, I won’t dedicate you another love poem
no I want (deserve) better
This isn't what love should be
I’ll write you a poem where the words convulse on the page
and you’ll forget to read it (you always do)
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 12:10 PM UTC
I used to identify with this idea of self
but it’s become an empty canvas,
a memory of romanticizing help
from being attached to words and panic
like they are the resolution to this
normalization spell
Coming to terms has kept me awake,
knowing that perceptions are lies
and with this continued heavy weight
from seeking external answers
my eyes will forever stay open,
devoid of the internal ocean
Burnt out from each day
maybe I was meant for the night
if I’m still finding ways to shake,
still saying good morning to the stars
wondering what this all means
and where the answers are
But here is good enough
to contemplate
while we humans
peddle our ignorance,
shy from possibilities that are endless,
afraid of simplicity
that is timeless:
ignoring nowhere
when it is somewhere,
though we mustn’t bask in fear,
no one ever arrives late-
if suffering occurs from attachment
then letting go must be
the way to stay sane
Right?
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 11:37 AM UTC
I am in such a **** mood,
the mountains have no meaning.
Big ******* rocks.
**** you, dad.
**** you, Fox News.
**** you, Indiana.
None of you *******
know what irony is.
Google that ****
Jesus Christ.
There are yellow streams--
that's poetic ****
There are ruby stained sheets--
that's blood, obviously,
and, I dunno,
maybe somebody died on a bed?
Everyone can **** my ****
To be or not to be,
that is the
shut the **** up.
Rapists are disgusting people.
They aren't people.
******* idiots.
Romanticizing everything
you wish you had
because
suicide, mental illness,
and eating disorders
make you cool,
riiiigghhhttt?
**** you.
If you do this,
you aren't interesting.
You're just you.
Get used to it.
There are people
that go through
these issues
and they don't think
it's ******* rad,
*******
I hate 75% of the south.
The south will rise again?
Get the **** out of here.
Stalin was a ****
Most writers are *****
Most of them ****
I don't care.
For the love of "God",
if I read one more poem
about what poetry is
or how to define a poet,
I'll slam my head against
a ************* knife.
Some people are so dumb.
Most ******* people.
******* pseudo-knowledge.
Armchair philosophers.
If you guys wanted
to **** yourself,
you could jump
from your ego
to your IQ.
Something, something, imagery.
Metaphor.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 1:18 AM UTC
I make myself stop writing of you
present tense
because if you aren't here
I find
I am romanticizing a confused memory
past tense
and you never were that great
or strong enough
to pull me out of
this sinking ship
perfect tense
I didn't think that a lover
could do anything except
but even jesus turned tables
in his anger
and I've found that wanting
leads to speaking in tenses
not yet intact
so I have been waiting on
a new day
a new feel
a new touch
future tense
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 8:33 PM UTC
Look out the window, or stare at the screen
I can't tell you what any of these posts mean
Everyone wants their five seconds of fame
Social media making everyone look the same
I'm not romanticizing the way it was before
I just can't take mindless scrolling anymore
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 11:03 PM UTC
I will readily be the first to admit
I heavily romanticize the **** out of life
It’s not that I don’t separate fact from fiction
But if I can find something that is beautiful in both
Then I know I have found something truly wonderful
Give me a movie moment and, for the time being, I’ll know that I’m doing okay
I’ll know everything is going to be alright
So give me summer nights
Let us run out the doors of a pizza place past midnight and drive
Standing up, top down in a convertible jeep around the back roads of a small town
Sticky stage makeup streaked by sticky wind
Overly gelled hair windswept into Picasso shapes
Let’s notice how the stars spin when you look directly upwards
And feel the swaying balance in your feet, as the air plays louder than the music
Hold out your arms like
Titanic
The Perks of Being a Wallflower
Superman
Hooking my ribcage forward over the top of the windshield so I can let my hands explore the sky
Reaching to touch low-hanging branches that are never quite near enough
Leaning bent back against the railing
And singing mismatched lyrics to whatever song I can’t quite hear
Since I’m holding my head farther above the world than usual
Standing straight and tall and
Let’s appreciate the way the laws of physics keep us from falling but not from tipping
So we’re always just on the edge of cautious
Slightly alert
But mostly lost in the magic of being
Young and free
Past midnight on the empty streets of a small town
With fireflies spinning past like low-hanging stars
And a summer breeze intensified into enveloping all five senses
Let’s forget about responsibilities and forgive the people we’re running away from
Even if just for the moment
Give me the rush of this moonlit escape
And memories that could fit with pretty soundtracks and rolling credits
Let headlights be our guide and the radio be our leader
For one night the tears in our eyes are going to be from the sting of speed
Not the empty hours of another sleepless night
For one night we are going to reach out for a hand
And actually end up holding tight to each other as we race through the darkness
Four heartbeats and a loud engine
All drowned out by a summer night being lived as it’s meant to be lived
Standing up, top down in a convertible jeep around the back roads of a small town
And romanticizing the ever living **** out of the movie moments in life
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 2:30 AM UTC
i've spent my whole life
searching for an escape route
that has never appeared
at the fondest of times
but ******* it, i
will paint that sign myself,
in the rusted blood seeping
from my heart,
if it means this will end
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 1:16 AM UTC
My idea of a party is having sand in my hair while I smell of burnt wood and midnight barbecue
Music will be the waves that crash and return and messy chords on an acoustic guitar
And I will remember when we both wished that we could go on road trips on hours like this,
And how eventually time ran short for us, so we're finally here
I want to get drunk on the moonlight while I sip on yesterday's memories
I want to talk about the good times
I will fall asleep enveloped in nature's arms and dance while the stars twinkle high above
My idea of a party are late night drives and stops at gasoline stations at unearthly hours,
Conversations that result to slurred words and cackling with the windows rolled down,
Romanticizing over the architecture of rotting wood and crumbling concrete
Books and printed words under a flashlight
My idea of a party are rolled sleeves and roadtrips away from every soul and every touch of skin,
Away from the world, except yours I will never grow tired of
n.j.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 7:55 PM UTC