I want to scream at the top of my lungs
Burst them and lie down and die
My life is passing me by
And I look in the rearview
And I see the graveyard of lives I’ve lived
hers, and hers, and hers, and hers, and hers;
I was hers.
Before I got ghosted,
Before they lost my number a long time ago.
These shipwrecks still live in my heart
And they make it hard to look ahead
How can my otimism persist?
I live in a world where some days I just want to **** ** ******.
But this is life.
As Tom Petty told us:
The good ol days might not return
So, I’ll give her a diamond,
Knowing that the rocks might melt and the sea might burn
Postscript to an ex lover
Suppose you read this,
No, not you you spineless traitor.
You, my sweet schoolteacher
I know that we sometimes still text,
Or rather, you mostly text me back
And I honestly don’t know why
So I am asking you anonymously to just let me go
I can’t be your hero
Because if you keep me on a line
I’ll always be there
Bunny, you know how much I care
And I know I can’t be the guy at the alter
I dropped you from heights too high for that
But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be your secret,
The weekend you pen in your calendar next March
But that can’t be
Because I just remembered
I wasn’t good enough.
Note to a girl I will love in return oneday
I don’t believe in love anymore
So, if you love me, hang tight
Hold on; bear with my Baltic heart
I promise not to push you away,
But I won’t pull you in close either
I am burying my love this winter like roses
So, if next spring we meet and I am frozen,
Please set your love to defrost
Note: Confessional poetry pains the ego; although, it greatly doth act as a balm to the soul; and, ultimately, this is what we need; for in our age there is an excess of art catering to egos, i.e., every instagram poet writing those trash odes to the self-imfatuated. Ex: ‘She was free and wild, her soul shone like a thousand suns. Even in darkness, it could not be denied.’ (Add centered text alignment and faux typewriter fontface.) That is not poetry – that is marketing – written by wanksters for wankers. Real poetry bleeds, even if that blood be a balm. /rant.