Crumpled papers

I will write meaningless poems about you
my nonexistent emotions will fill blank pages
the invisible feelings will choke on the ink stained paper
disgorging emptiness becoming an extension of who I am.

but, my words still pour onto the page unwilling to stop for anything
a storm of letters against the hard white surface
which crash violently into one another
ending in a pile of bad clichés and broken pencil tips
solely because I can’t allow myself
to write meaningful poems
anymore.

In a group of strangers his hands are the most familiar while
spinning, fumbling, tumbling around until
his lips begin to eradicate the faint taste of a man once
held so close to my heart but now as he inches forward
as his drunken eyes lay solely on mine
I can’t help but let him play a while he
pulls me in close to lift the bruises from my neck
tracing the path of familiar lips
hiked by the others who reeked of cigarettes and cheap vodka
a feeling too much like home 

Le moment ou le soleil ce met au lit
et quand les oiseaux cesse de chanter
se trouve à être les moments de difficulté.
C’est les moments telles comme celles-ci ou je me fait taquiner
avec les visions, des souvenir.
Je remarque parfois des ressemblances
ou des dissemblances,
qui me fait pensé a vous.
Je me fait agacer par votre sourire,
par votre voix,
par la simple façon dont vous vous tenez dans le monde.
C’est lorsque le soleil ce cache que les blessures et cicatrices se rendent à la surface
et c’est lorsque les oiseaux termine à chanter
que l’écho tourmenté de ta voix commence à résonner dans mon esprit,
bondit contre mes os et prend refuge dans mon cœur.

(Gave this a shot. My grammar is rough, and I sound whiny, but it’s not awful I don’t think……IDK sorry english followers xo)

Considering giving some french poetry a try…

That could be very good or very bad though. 

If my eyes could burn my thoughts into the walls,
I’d have murals burned into the ceiling from the hours spent staring up and thinking of you at 3am.

I can’t even come up with a fucking title.

Tears swelling behind the dam of my heart
still strong to Mother Nature’s abuse,
but fractured by years and 
cracked by hands.

One day,
when my dam-of-a-heart is attacked, 
beat down and broken,
when it floods this town with woe,
I swear, I swear,
I would find your prints branded on the
handle of a hammer.

Should Would Could

It’s not on my mind,
but not a single pillow rests next to mine.
From a wedding to party to funeral line,
it’s the “Sorrys” and “Thank yous”
those half empty sighs.

Haunted by things that could have been

or the things that should have been

but I guess if they should have been,
then they would have been.

Taking pleasure in pain,
slowly driven insane
from these hearts overstrained.

Not a fan of commitment,
just love is just fine
it’s not you it’s me
Take the feelings you pine,
run away and leave
when I’m bitter and old, confined
to the frame of one once so sublime.

Oxytocin

This addiction 
has the worst withdrawals.
They leave you feeling
completely empty and 
alone
until you get
the next hit.

Shaking in anticipation,
preparing for the next fix.
Face forward, inhale.
Hear your heart race through my head.
Pounding anxiously,
waiting. 

Finally,
the collision creates a moment of pure ecstasy
in my addict body.
Pressed in close 
to confuse your heartbeat 
and the motion of your lungs.

The worst withdrawls,
but the best high.

Precariousness

Let’s pretend these sheets are empty
and that I’ve died or something equally as irreversible.
Flown away with the last of the sparrows,
or carried by an autumn breeze.
Perhaps pulled into the depths of a surging wave,
or lost in the darkness of a grotto.
Running an old dirt path,
where thoughts of you cannot follow
and try to plead my return.

In years from then, 
when I’ve forgotten the feeling of sunlight on my skin,
and when your prints finally leave my lips,
I’ll rest in peace,
knowing I saved you. 

little note at 10:24pm

Anxious feeling

Frightened soul

My hand in search of something to hold


Fingers tangled

Melt in my palm

Pulses beat to the same lonely song