• One sad excuse for a poem.

    by  • May 23, 2014 • Lost Love • 0 Comments

    I always just start writing about you.
    The others, they tell me my words are beautiful.
    I don’t know why.
    Maybe for the fact they are written about you.
    You are beautiful.
    But what the others don’t know.
    And what you don’t know.
    Is I stare at this blank fucking sheet of paper.
    As my tears trickle down, crashing onto the page.
    And all I feel is frustration and rage.
    Anger and completely numb.
    Because I write down these things.
    And it never seems to come even remotely close to how I feel.
    If what pulses through my mind could only be translated to the page.
    Into words.
    I would be smiling in my car, because a song came on I once heard you sing along to.
    I would write about me standing in the shower, as the scolding hot water burns my skin yet hides my tears, yet another time.
    As I try to put the pieces together of the exact moment I even “lost” you.
    Then I would write how I turned the water off, feeling not only drained yet a sense of defeat.
    And then I realize I never even had you completely.
    Never open, to the world to see, and the tears they sneak by again.
    I would write of how a fire starts in my chest.
    When I see a picture of you and..her.
    I’ve never envied someone so much before in my entire life.
    I would write how my eyes start to burn as I continue to stare at this picture.
    This fucking traditional picture.
    Or how I continue to stare at the damn ceiling, when its as late as 3am.
    And I am missing you
    Being up that late used to be fun, when you were around.
    Man, I wish you were still around.
    You’re here..
    But are you here?
    I don’t even know how to end this fucking “poem” because there’s simply no poetic way to explain I feel like complete shit.
    Defeat.

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