Everyone keeps telling me —
I’m telling me,
"It just takes time."
But when you feel you’re being ripped apart,
how much time does it take to drive you mad?
There were a lot of couples
walking though campus tonight.
I kept thinking about the time
you sat smoking a cigar
watching me dance in the yard.
We fell in love in the summer,
we were never ready for the nights to get longer.
My mind is too broken to make this into poetry.
I just wish things hadn’t ended up this way.
Anonymous asked: What are you putting in your book?
20 ish poems
I’m considering making another short video seeing as I’m a complete jackass about making my poetry book. (My motivation is lacking due to my sense of impending rejection and failure upon actually putting it out. I’m trying. Or I’m trying to try) Anyway, yes, questions. Ask them of me.
It’s taken me a long time, and a lot of hard work to become the person I am. No matter what else happens, whatever disappointments and pains, I’m not going back to who I have been before. I’m proud of that. I’m happy with that.
Some days without you,
and some days without you,
So, I guess,
days without are you are just
I wake in the morning, hair a mess and the smudges of last night’s make up still on my face.
I pour one cup of coffee and make one bowl of oatmeal.
I shower alone and I take my time painting on my face.
I walk to school, I sit in class and keep my headphones in right up until the moment the professor begins to speak (so no one will speak to me).
I make lunch for one, dirtying only one pan, one bowl, and one fork.
I sit listening to the music I select and go about my responsibilities, and maybe have another cup of coffee.
I do the school part again, and I come home and do the dinner part that looks a lot like the lunch part.
I watch my shows, and I curl into my big bed wrapped in blankets and go to sleep.
I think this must sound lonely to some. But to me, there’s a delightful romance in not saying a word out loud all day, that instead of pouring my thoughts out to the world, I let the world pour its thoughts onto me.
I’d like to say something romantic,
"I fell all the more in love with you each moment you broke my heart".
But the truth is much less poetic:
that those moments made the sweeter ones fade
and as the pieces of my heart became sharper,
the moments I had loved you became duller.
The truth is not a pretty thing,
and don’t let the world fool you,
love is not either.
You are all I think about.
I am not patient,
I am aching.