"unintentional" poems
You're in love with her.
She's the kind of soft that makes the sun fall to its knees every evening just to get a closer glimpse.
She's everything that makes a boy believe in god.
How else could he be alive at the same time as her if he didn't?
The odds are too great for there to be any other reason that he gets to make her smile.
That kind of smile that's designed to melt boys like him that i've turned cold.
You thought I was her once.
Speaking of thoughts, do I ever cross your mind sometimes like you cross mine? Even if unintentional?
At night I accidentally love you like no time has passed.
I know it's just my unconscious mind, but while I sleep there's a version of you that loves me still.
You're a dream that I wish wasn't.
So it's the worst kind of accident you could say.
Maybe not accidental if gods real like you believe he is.
My dreams might possibly just be his way of saying **** you".
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 11:04 PM UTC
There is something magical
in the whirring
of a midday laundromat.
A cessation of pride,
maybe.
People all dressed in sweatpants
the air full of detergent smell
and the sound of coins clicking
against great tumblers
as they go round
and round
and round
and round...
The people smile back,
no use pretending superiority here.
Whistlers twitter on, folding towels and socks into neat, organized piles.
The children are well behaved,
their hands full of potato chips
given by their parents as a pittance for their patience.
The patient patrons
ponder on,
their empty hands crumpling receipts.
This, with the crunching of chips
and the distant whistle
over the percussion of clicking
coins clattering
in a dryer
compose an unintentional opera,
an ode to humility.
Humility's honorable honesty heals humanity's hubris.
Noisy trucks pass outside the floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows,
Where the hot air wreaks its violence
and men make their ways
in spite.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 5:00 PM UTC
We sat across the table
and I couldn't look away
from all his tattoos.
Without thinking,
I stretched out my hand
and extended my finger.
I began to trace
the arcade tickets that ran
the length of his arm.
He grew up with his grandfather
and they spent hours in his arcade.
His grandfather was his first best friend,
so the tickets they won were his first tattoo.
I could feel his smile grow.
He loved his tattoos
and now I did, too.
He left a mark on my life.
Just like the ink
on his skin.
I see him everywhere.
I can't tell if he tattooed himself
in my mind or under my eyes.
There's no escaping
or replacing him.
There's just no one like him.
He had a kind of goodness
that could be seen
in the smile that
would burn into the back of my mind,
haunting me for years.
He was just dorky enough
to get a laugh out of me
when I had the weight of the
world on my chest.
If you're lucky enough
to even know him,
he'll put a tattoo in you, too.
Whether you want it or not,
you will never forget him.
Trust me, I've tried.
He comes out of nowhere
and he helps you.
He asks for help
just as much as you.
It's just enough
to make you think
that he needs you, too.
God knows he was what I needed.
I needed him like
an alcoholic needs his whisky.
He was my whisky.
His finger tips
had a different kind of ink
and he was part of me with every touch.
I swear he had needles
in the tips of his fingers.
His touch always stung,
and now I will never
forget that sting
that is now stuck
in the parts of me he touched.
All the hugs,
the intentional and unintentional ways
that we touched.
They left their mark,
their pain-riddled stain on me.
The stains of him were left
with memories and stories
and they were attached
to songs that I can no longer listen to
and places I can no longer visit.
He came into my life so quick
and he left just as fast.
I think about him often.
I dream about him often.
It's like he stops in now and then
to catch up in chat in my sleep.
He took a part of me
with him when he left.
But his memories remain
and I don't want them.
I think about the goals he had
and I hope he achieves them.
I just wish I could be the one
that gets to congratulate him.
He will be leaving in August
and I will probably never see
or talk to him again.
But I will never be able
to forget him.
He is the one tattoo
I wish I could remove.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 11:16 PM UTC
She hates that she is a woman
The putrefying weakness perceived in the curves of her body
The naivete shown in her blues
With the unintentional flutter of butterfly lashes
That refuse to meet the glances of those that pass by
The fear-- Of what?
That stereotypes are true?
She doesn't even know
And it sickens her.
She sickens herself.
She hates that she is white
The blandest vanilla
The marble statue
Somehow revered
Worshiped
Privileged
But simultaneously overlooked
Boring
Unimportant
The Caucasian mongrel
In light of the fact that her People
Have no proud history
Which she can name herself heir to
She hates that she is middle class
Not poor enough to struggle
Not rich enough to be free
Just situated dully in the middle
A footnote in the statistic
That they tell her she must use
To identify herself
She hates that her belief system
Has to be called by a name
That she has to choose
To be a part of a group
As part of her "identity"
And she is not allowed
To stand by her own integrity
She hates that she is American
The pudgy, loud-mouthed, laterally-speaking nation
The brashly jumps into conflict
Guns blazing
As its political system decays
In the stench of its overwhelming debt and corruption
But in truth
She hates
That they force her
To whittle her essence down
Into Gender, Race, Class, Religion, and Nationality
A vomit-inducing statistic
As if there was nothing more to her
Than the facts surrounding her existence
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
All alone, again
Feeling meloncholy and captive
Within a cloud of intentional isolation
As each thought comes and goes without an answer.
Memories flicker in the crime scene of my mind.
My perception is clouded by questioning every suspicion.
As I try to stay unemotional and rationally make doubt my enemy.
This day has now ended and I have not made a decision.
Wondering when indecision and fear have intersected in my life.
Have I become so insouciant that I am blinded?
As I grow old and in my final hours, could this be my biggest mistake?
I am unwillling to dwell in the present and find happiness again?
Hours spent suffocating myself with regret
Tried to harden my heart to the point of no return
But, I perservere and try to rise above the abundancy of pain.
Licking the salt from my tears as they drip to my lips.
I now lay down, so silent that even my breath is quiet
Asking if the pain is worth the possibility of a true love that will last.
Will he crush my heart with unintentional love for another?
A chance, I guess, I am willing to take. Or too soon?
I can only pray that the right answer will come during my slumber
And it will be within the will of my creator
Praying that my dreams will be filled with the answers that I seek
And tomorrow will be full of love, trust and loyalty.
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 1:12 AM UTC
to more than I can be...
a sad isolated man,
throes of an agonizing,
stretched by her for painful
revengeful gain,
kissed with pointless avarice, divorce.
children deeming
him alienating, his faulty
insensitive sensitivities,
to easy blame
little do they know of the
piercing lowliness, the looniness of
nights he listened to sad-eyed singers,
and his late-of-mid of night scribbled scripts,
where he
off loaded the agonies of a midlife
disaster, not entirely of his-own
sown making,
but still his to bear and bare alone...
some accidents happens for unintentional,
unintended intentional new seasons appear,
stumbled, tumbled, fumbled his way onto
this H~oly P~lace, where someone might listen
to his explanations, expiations, excoriations
of his all too common tragedy, and said:
this broken human, he's got his reasons,
read his overly long treatises, his entreaties,
to those that prowl, rowing, in this corner
of the silence of the internet, where only the
trolls, the cold, the easier to-be-meaner oft thrive,
and found none of that, but an oasis of sheltering,
embracing comforting, those who actually admitted
his writings could be loved, and perhaps the writer
himself, was
deserving
of a second chance, a verbal embrace. a rereading forgiveness,
a pat
on his natback, a sympathetic sensory intaking,
and perhaps-this debt, eternal, that put the
for and the fore in a new baby born, named -
new forever
came into existence
the very same
e
that begins those conjoined words
***e~ternally grateful
"and now I sleep in peace when the day is done"
but the night time
is still the
write time
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 11:42 AM UTC
How can I consider myself a poet?
I do not have a cat for a pet
(Instead I have a dog that thinks I’m her pet)
How can I call myself a poet?
I do not over indulge in alcohol
(Except the rarely occasional beer or whiskey)
How can I be a poet?
I do not consciously write with rhyme or rhythm in mind
(If it comes, it’s usually seldom or unintentional)
How can I be called a poet?
I don’t live in France nor have I ever been
(Though given the chance, I would leave in a heartbeat)
How can I be considered a poet?
I don’t dress in all black clothes and smoke Clove cigarettes
(I love flannel and jeans and smoke Camel or American Spirits)
How can I consider myself a poet?
(Maybe the fact that I ask this question makes me a poet?)
Nov 13, 2011
Nov 13, 2011 at 10:02 AM UTC
Crying can happen so gently...
But oh god does it hurt
When you're curled up crying so hard
You think you might scream,
But your throat constricts
And all that you could ever muster
Is an unintentional mangled squeak of raw emotion.
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC
there were times i feel like I'm a special child
the one who needs most of the attention
the one who needs love the most
but the only difference is, i only need those that are from my loved ones
it's not that i feel that i am neglected
not that i am rejected
not even was i isolated
it's just that... i feel alone at some times...
it was unintentional --- i guess
nobody left me
they were just busy
busy with their own lives
i was never an attention-seeker
i never wanted to be an eye-candy
neither a center of attention
or someone in the middle of a commotion
maybe i just needed some of your time
some of your busy time for me
even the least of it that you can give me
just for this day... make me feel like I am Special
Apr 25, 2011
Apr 25, 2011 at 3:57 AM UTC
Here comes The Change
That has the range
Of emotions
And demotions
And devotions
Of a perilous populous
That likes to raise a fuss
When they eventually learn who I am
And treat me like I'm the Son of Sam
To be specific
They discover I'm gay
And begin to filet
My mentality
In totality
For fatality
Merely by acting differently
If my sexuality isn't the first thing people know about me
I get to witness The Change
Like a dog with mange
I am shedding my hair
While screaming no fair
Because of the shift I see
Because of the **** I need
To make my heart bleed
There is a steady bellowing burdensome baggage
From those that want to ****** some *******
So I search for weight lifters
But only find shapeshifters
That become great grifters
When The Change occurs
And The Change burns
So The Change turned
Me into an interdimensional changeling
And an unintentional rage king
After they use words like flaming
Because the results are so draining
It becomes hard not to hate people
Who are inspired by hate steeples
They say I'm going to Hell
While I notice the smell
Of being buried in their banal ****
While they play their greatest hits
That are as unoriginal
As they are cynical
They say I'm a degenerate
An embarrassment
A parent's lament
I want to change into a carefree bird
Instead I stay in Hell with the herd
Wanting to escape like Lupin the Third
Rather than be oppressed like the Kurds
But there is no relief
Only re-grief
When changes aren't permanent
But The Change is
There's an illustration of my life
That will change your perspective
The picture is in my words
When the painting is what I choose to say
And the canvas is your mind
Whose textures I could never imagine
So I jump off a cliff blindfolded
Expecting to be changed once I land
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 6:13 AM UTC
Lately your belly laughs and dry humor are flooding my mind. The only times we make eye contact are over volleyball nets and ice cream sales. Once the most important man in my life, you no longer fill the position. I fired you.
But then again, it’s like you quit. Instead of asking me about my day, you tell me about your new girlfriend. I’m beginning to forget the directions in which the wrinkles around your eyes move. I can’t exactly pinpoint your gray hairs anymore. You once embraced me with a father’s love but now pat your hand on my back.
Despite the frigid weather when you left, it didn’t seem so cold. But nine months has now felt like nine years and the temperature has only declined. It’s no surprise considering communication has never been your strong suit. Every time you speak is a cliffhanger. I am dangling from heights unknown, waiting for an answer that may not come. I want to submerge myself in your company and harmonize our voices in conversation. How are you?
My eyes do not reflect the chocolate brown in yours but instead radiate blue like the ocean. Unfortunately this is not our only contrast. Funny how years ago our faces were so similar but now that things have changed our only mutual feature is our height.
You’re half my original chromosomes but I don’t even know half of your day. Where do you go when it’s dark and the moon is shining down over you? What do you call home? Your absence is a mystery I cannot solve. The position I once promised you has been filled by a more qualified candidate; you wonder why I’m always with my boyfriend.
Although I am angry, I am sure this is unintentional. My hope is that this is only temporary. The only question is, how long will you be gone; when will you re-apply?
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
My light has to be hidden from each and every walk of life;
it is a target for the darkness and strong emotions of others that are rife.
My soul is too deep and fragile to be torn apart time and time again,
by impassioned people who end up causing unintentional pain.
I am crushed by the weight of the universe.
They say to be an empath is a gift - but to me it feels like a curse.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 4:22 AM UTC
she's one of those Scandinavian girls all your friends at the barbecue would say,
"dude, how the **** did you manage to get with THAT?"
because they're all entranced in her painted and unintentional glow, she's a diamond,
and it's not the diamonds fault it's a diamond.
it's a mix of luck, probability, and perspectives on beauty derived from
thousands of years of embedded consciousness on what defines the aesthetics of a souls harmonic glances
I'm luckiest because she's not just a diamond on the outside.
the rest of her diamonds still reside underneath. speaking through her body yet still deep to discover
and I'll keep looking.
I'll keep looking and I'll discover how rich she is.
But she doesn't know it yet.
she may never know it.
diamonds are easy to see,
but hard to find.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 1:44 AM UTC
I was getting
a pillow
for my mom
who is in hospice care
and as I went
I bashed my knee
on a piece of furniture
so hard
that I had to sit down
and moan in pain
and later
it became red
and probably will
develop a bad bruise
so my practices,
many of which
I do standing up
and dancing,
had to be changed,
so I tried the new way
of doing them
sitting on a chair
and to my surprise
I thought they were better,
so once again
it has been shown to me
that accidents
and unintentional occurances
sometimes
are the best things
that can happen.
May 1, 2012
May 1, 2012 at 7:02 PM UTC
When I discovered I had cancer,
I was told that I would learn a lot
About Life and Death and Time,
But I never thought that I would
Discover what it means
To be intimate
With strangers,
Or anyone, for that matter.
When my insides were cut open like a game of operation,
I told myself:
Be detached.
When visitors came,
We talked about the weather.
When I arrived home, I spent my time
Trying to forget
The experience
Of impermanence
And shared emotions
That I couldn't even grapple with
Myself.
When the person I loved
Left me
I flinched
And then sunk back into an abyss of
Emotionless functioning,
Cutting myself further and further
Off from my narrative
Of pain.
When it was time to go back to school,
I flinched
And signed up for a workload
Heavy enough
To push out the fading reality
Of my condition.
It wasn't until I was sitting on the steps
Outside of a bar that was slowly beginning
To empty out,
As intoxicated shadows gained substance and lit cigarettes against the brick wall.
I sunk down next to friend I had recently met-
My big t shirt inched up above my abdomen
And the lower jagged mark of my scar
Peeked out-
I didn't choose to tell him my story
Until he asked me about the obvious
Stale incison mark that had a presence
Of its own.
Piece by piece, it peeled itself from off my stomach
And liquified into a sequence of events
And feelings
That poured from me
Like a stream of bubbling bath water
Overflowing from the rim
Of a porcelain tub.
That's when I realized that there is something shared and intimate about scars:
Marred reminders of the flesh
That speak to our upmost human
Encounters with our own mortality.
An indecipherable label of sorts:
An unsigned invitation into the taboo.
In a moment of unintentional word *****
At 2am to a stranger,
I regained my intimacy with myself
And my journey.
I learned that while Life and Death and Time
Will always plague our existence,
They distance us from the human experience that is
To feel:
To feel everything in this God forsaken world.
To feel angry at people for leaving when they should have stayed.
To feel compassion at the same time.
To feel intimacy with others.
To feel intimacy with yourself.
To feel love.
To feel pain.
To feel the cold creases in the wooden floor as you make your way to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
To feel alone.
To feel surrounded.
To feel the trembling echoes of the past and be able to grab its elusive coattails and shake away the dusty remnants of time and shout that you are present.
To feel nothing.
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 1:07 AM UTC
"She is so cute!"
said the grand mother type
in McDonalds today.
**"Yes I have heard that said.
Every where we go."**
Miss Personality makes
an impression...
on the young and the old.
Purely unintentional.
Little head strong at times.
Mostly when awake.
She will go far.
Disagreements with Nana
can be fun at times,
'"Lucy! Don't do that! No!"
Can ping pong three times.
Then must stop. Or else!
On hearing the verbal
exchange between
the two one day
Gpa asked Miss Lucy,
**"What part of 'NO'
do you not understand?"**
The reply coming from
Miss Congeniality was an
emphatic "The N."
Gpa left the room.
Laughing held to elsewhere.
Reporting to Nana.
She is cute at times.
Four now...
going on fourteen.
But still cute.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
You know the the feeling
of inseparable grace
hand-in-hand with a sense
of apparent distaste.
I'm so sick of sorrow
skirted by unintentional affection.
Plus, you confuse the relation
between my heart and thought sensations.
I've never hurt worse
in such a short amount of time.
You'll never read this spiel,
but a silent thought is fine.
**** this thought of hope.
**** what I would like to see.
I was so full of accusations
that I forgot to breathe.
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 11:40 PM UTC
There was a sun
behind 'The Sun'
that burned a little differently.
There was a sun
farther away,
that shone a little differently.
No source of light
No source of warmth
Was not the benevolent of nature.
There was a sun
who looked a lot like you
A sun, of higher stature.
Fierce soldier, fighting hard
Cared not, feared not
the tides, the moon, the death lake.
Would burn and melt and heat and bake
Cared not, feared not
about anyone, but his dear snowflake.
He moved about,
round and round
unlike the many others.
Spellbound by the softness
of the snow ,the tempted young sun
couldn't stay any farther.
And thence moved,
the imperious sun
at a steady but leisurely pace.
Towards the wishful
and restless snowflake
who waited for his wordless embrace.
This twosome of heat and frost
wasn't meant to be
said the Mighty Lord.
Disregarding the Lord's words
The fervid sun said
"We shall be together against all odds"
Hesitant and anxious
were the first touches,
strong was this polarized attraction.
Melted the snow on the Sun's surface,
He couldn't stop this
unintentional percolation.
She gave her life
To the infinite sun
Though ,In his core she was reborn.
Calmed his inferno, the snowflake
Outstretched her empty hands again,
Cooled down the sun's wrath, like she had sworn.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
Stop cutting.
I get it, life hurts.
You want to feel, something.
You would rather watch your own blood seep out of your body from a self inflicted wound, than experience the hurt you have inside.
I get it. Stop cutting.
You choose to hurt yourself because you are overwhelmed by the pain you have caused another person, even if it was unintentional. The thought of that person whom you have such strong feelings for, suffering because of your actions or in-actions, is almost unbearable.
I get it. Stop cutting.
You don't know what to make of your situation. You don't know how a person like you could end up in such a ****** up scene. You feel stuck, lost.
I get it. I do.
Stop cutting.
Your parents **** They don't understand the kind of **** you are going through. Sure they were kids once but that was different. Things were different back then. They don't get you and they probably never will. They don't care.
I get it. Stop cutting.
You really want to hurt yourself because you get off on the pain. You want it. You need it. You deserve it. You were put on this earth to suffer and you accept your role as martyr.
I get it. Truly, I do.
Stop cutting.
You need some sort of release. Something, anything. Anything but the consuming black,
nothing. The sweet release that only a razor can provide is the only thing that seems real to you amidst all of the drama.
I get it.
Stop cutting.
There is chaos in your life and the secret solitude provided by your ritual seems like an oasis.
I get it. Stop cutting.
You like the way your skin splits open. You like the way you can touch the cuts underneath your clothes. You like the way the scars remind you.
I get it.
Stop cutting.
The love of your life has abandoned you, leaving a void that nobody will ever fill. Ever.
You are completely and utterly alone.
Life *****
I get it.
You however, are beautiful,
inside and out,
scars and everything,
and you are not as alone as you think.
Please,
Please,
Please,
Stop cutting.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 1:54 AM UTC
They pretended not to notice how much you had changed
But they did comment on your thinning face
And how much healthier you looked
How much better
They pulled you to the side "Oh my gosh, how did you do it?"
Quizzical looks
They didn't know that the weight you lost
Was unintentional
A compensation for the heavy load inside
You tried to somehow shake off
You hated your jutting rib bones,
Losing your sanity along with your "baby" fat
You lost what made you a woman
No no one noticed your gaunt eyes
and the sharp angle of your cheekbone
Like pain
and the way you started drinking
(Although you never stopped)
They didn't notice the new scars you kept hidden with makeup
Meticulous
careful
calculating
So unlike you
No no one noticed how your eyes shone a little less brighter
Especially when you smiled
Apart from that ex-boyfriend you left a winter ago
Standing in the cold
Because he was an *******
But ******** can be right
And you saw the way he looked at you like-
the way you used to look at a broken mirror
Wondering which piece to pick up first
And start gluing back together
The way you looked at your own blood flow from your wrist's
A little scared, amazed, numb..
Like "Where do we start first?"
And "What happened here?"
Thats how he looked at you
Atleast someone noticed
Jan 6, 2012
Jan 6, 2012 at 12:27 PM UTC
Dissatisfaction an empty abyss
Deep in now a well known limb
Hope severed, intangible, a ghost
Screaming without a sound
Bleeding without a wound
And these strings fatuously tuned.
Inebriate and stumbling through
an ocean of nobodies, all together, unseen
Without a purpose, an insect
Abiding another nobodies law,
Rebellion restricted by a Metropolitan claw
Steel bars in my own conscience
Dreaming the escape, yet alone
Soaring through time
Captivation doesn't last
A welcome blessing and an unintentional curse, yet alone
and innocence is now grown
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 8:34 AM UTC
I've spent the last 3 months in rehab
rebuilding myself after you tore me down
and admittedly there's still pieces of me I haven't found
little pieces at the bottom of your sea, drowned
It's a struggle everyday to get by
yet as time passes, nanoseconds at a time
I remember less how great you felt,
how without you I though I'd die
And like every ****** and great addiction
I relapse, back into my rose coloured world of fiction
as much as I long to be clean, I guess I subconsciously
like it better when you're mean, ruthless
and equate me to dirt, as though I like it better
when it hurts
or else why, what keeps me falling back
with every unintentional relapse
and though I may not physically let you in
your venom that I crave seeps into my skin
that every time I acknowledge your existence
you win
Now, I know this isn't a game, win or lose
it's that dark, shadowed, familiar path I choose
because pain is always better shared between two
And, thus I'm back to rehab today
so that I might find a better way
to hold myself up and to myself say
It was never love,
just a drug induced hallucination
my chemical flooded brain caused adoration
and the constant feeling of fascination
that you're immune to it all
and it's my favorite addiction
but I can't last as a ******
cause this is real life, fact not fiction.
Jan 29, 2011
Jan 29, 2011 at 10:44 AM UTC
Today, he lives his life unchanged,
unaware of the gifts he gives,
the joy he brings.
My heart has long since
run out of summers.
All my leaves and flowers have gone-
I only have the snow now.
His body looks like ice,
pale and beautiful,
just like porcelain-
his hair black like my sky
between the blizzards.
But his lips are red and warm,
like the heat I yearn for.
There is fire in this body yet.
But alas, he does not want me-
I will only rob him of his warmth,
the fire that fuels him.
It is unintentional.
I swear I don’t mean to.
I want, even though I cannot have.
Selfishness.
Unbalanced.
But when he holds me
he becomes my shelter.
When he kisses me,
he offers me warmth and release,
relieving me from my Siberian winter.
When he pretends to love me,
he brings me Spring
even if it’s just for one night.
Yet I can give him nothing in return;
he does not want anything from me-
I have nothing to offer him,
for I am all out of summers.
He will not be able to keep me warm for long.
He will not stay here.
He will soon move on and search for someone
more worthy,
more profitable,
someone beautiful just like him.
I only have ice to give,
even though I love.
Love is no good when one has no warmth.
I can only be half a lover,
unsuitable and inferior.
But just for tonight,
he offers me spring
in the form of an embrace
and a kiss.
I love.
I melt.
Снегу́рочка.
Jan 27, 2011
Jan 27, 2011 at 10:42 AM UTC
one day you'll pick the shortest straw in the stack
and this time i wont be there
i hate the way you have me on this string
like a spider spinning a lonely web
i'm waiting for you to have me for your dinner
but you just keep on keeping on with the others
i can't wait anymore countless years
opportunities pass me by
opportunities pass my eyes
though time flies
i can't get past this hurtle of you
i can't wait anymore years for you to decide to cover my body in your love
like a spider on a string
lost in your comatose
lost in your sunken vegetated eyes
too comfortable in her arms
your name rings in my head like an alarm clock that wont shut off
i have never accepted so much unintentional mental abuse
yet i still find myself at your side everytime
opportunities pass me by
opportunities pass my eyes
though time flies
i can't get past this hurtle of you
i can't wait anymore years for you to decide to cover my body in your love
like a spider on a string
lost in your comatose
lost in your sunken vegetated eyes
too comfortable in her arms
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 4:14 PM UTC