We wrote our dreams on lanterns,
they floated in the sky.
And with our dreams were wishes
but yours refused to fly.
Our paper hopes and kerosene desire,
lighting up the night.
I was wishing laughter
yet you could not
meet my eye.
You knew my
Mind was soured
The translation was no lie
Sweetness tasted bitter.
it flew higher
Yours never even tried.
I see you sometimes
still, your silhouette invading my head.
And when I think of you
your face is blurred.
Your features no longer perturb
my dreams and days.
I saw you today,
flicking through photos, there you were.
Lying almost naked, stretched across your bed.
Yet for once I did not almost retch.
6 months at least, maybe a year
to scour you from my heartbroken mind,
finally now, I really don’t care.
About where you are,
and why you’re there.
Perhaps this is how you felt.
The entire time.
I used to hate you, did you know that?
And only a lover can hate as a fact.
Sleepless nights would turn to sleepless days,
Thinking of you, and all that pain.
It’s different now, my hate has waned.
All memories a distant haze.
– Dont’ really like this, but I think it needed to be wrote. I think maybe it could be better if I tried more, but it’s something that doesn’t deserve my effort. –
We are the lost ones,
The anachronistic souls.
We are the ones who weave words into feelings,
But our feelings are too strong for words.
We are the desolate bunch,
The hopeless fools.
We are the ones who stop to open doors,
Yet the door to our hearts will remain locked.
We are the last ones,
The romantic souls (fools).
We are the ones who still care to feel,
and no one wants our feelings anymore.
If we call it fiction,
can I spread more lies.
I’ll trace words with my fingers,
writing on your thighs.
So when you read my poems,
the pretty words aren’t right.
I’ll turn poison into glitter,
we’ll sparkle throughout the night.
But when the stars stop sparkling,
with the sun just out if sight
I’ll tell you one more story.
I’ll tell you one more lie.
Bit of a grumpy poem really sorry , I don’t think it’s all that good but it was nice to write and I’m sort of attached to it!
I tried to write my feelings in a diary.
I tried to turn this moment into poetry,
Surely an intricate metaphor,
would make it bearable.
But I couldn’t do it.
I can’t make the truth pretty,
There is no other way to say it.
I am sad.
A forgotten cup of tea,
tepid. Half-full of comfort.
There is no warmth there, if you’re lucky its drinkable.
You could I suppose
heat it up.
Microwave for seconds. Bing.
But it’s not the same,
It’s too hot.
The tea has lost it’s tea-ness.
There is no solace in that stained mug.
With rings around the edges – from your earlier sips.
Almost like memories. Imprints from another time.
A forgotten cup of tea.
No do not pour it down the drain, do not clean away that cup and start again without a care in the world for what once was special.
Leave it there. keep it forgotten.
A forgotten cup of tea, there is no comfort there.
What you say – “You’re worrying me now, is this like last time?”
What I say – “No no, it’s okay, I’m just a bit stressed but I’ll be fine”
What I mean – “How many more people will accept this lie?!”
So you’re not gonna… you know?
Don’t be silly, that won’t happen again
I think I am, I am gonna… you know. I think it’s you know, already happening. I’m sorry my friend.
Well take care of yourself, and go to the doctors and eat and sleep and talk to me if you need to.
You know you’d be the first person I’d call.
This is that call, but thanks anyway.