I might have written my best poems with you, You always believed in my poetry, if not me Maybe. Who knows, I just know time goes But we stay. We stay. I quote the things you used to say. Sometimes it feels like every day. The things you used to say.
Just wrote a poem and deleted it Next song. Okay, now I Breathe And so…. But the song is sad. Only I listen, because I am in love, And so I breathe. And next; Yes. I breathe Only, I wish life didnt trivialize and parody itself, Because I need this: Lily Allen, Something’s Not Right…
If I had to choose between writing and sex, I’d choose pen over penis eight days a week. Why I’ve gone with such a seemingly daft metaphor, I know all too clearly; for my writing is growing into as compulsory an act as masturbating was for me at fifteen, only I’ve no Portnoy’s Complaint –…
Have the courage to stop the world and start over at two am, While the night is still and your days may yet be seized; Have the courage to use your dreams as metaphors for the things you truly want: Reimagining your life as one does who has become brave enough to see heroes as…
I lie so close to the one I love, Ten million miles away By rote I tell myself all will be well, But these words invoke only a reminder of the hell The loneliness, The stone, cold to the bone, hurt loneliness Where where dreams, When we fall so sad On one another in resignation
