a thousand words live and die
short lives
graves of crumpled paper and torn pages
epitaphs written on erasers
scribbled over with pen
never to be read again.
Is it just me, or do you-
I'm afraid to say this, but-
I know you never said that-
Please don't misunderstand-
We were never really alone, and-
Don't get me wrong-
I just passed up the chance, thinking-
What could I have done to-
It's hard for me to describe.
Rest in Silence.
Your presence saps the common sense from my mind
and what courage there is in my heart.
I'd like to end this, but
I can barely get a start.
It's not like I don't want to
I just can't
when I think of you.
...
I am a superb idiot.
And I think I already have a post called "Cowardly," and it might be too close but they're not exactly the same so I'll survive for now.
I like writing poetry. Not all of it is going to be a historical epic or an ode to something. These are like little glimpses of the subway in my mind; my train of thought isn't always artsy or symbolic or deep or meaningful, but I like to think that art takes ordinary things and makes people see a sort of beauty in them. So, look around- I've been doing this for a while. Enjoy ♥
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