The poem as prey, as blood luscious, elusive. The poem as the locked room.
37 posts
Him
Him
He was butterflies.
He was anxiety.
He was silent cries.
He was that feeling of empty.
He was reliance.
He was trouble.
He was treacherous.
He was loyal.
He was steady.
He was unstable.
He was needy.
He was unpredictable.
He was my almost lover.
He was a goddamn nightmare.
He was a million little emotions.
Mixed into a disconsolate one.
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More Posts from Unlikelyanonymous
Pic via pinterest
You were like the sea
The delicate intimacy of you visiting my dreams. Only then I get to see you.
The sea, with all its hurricanes, all its storms. It reminds me of you.
Watching you fall in love and out of love. But never with me.
You were like the sea, with all its stillness. And all its peace.
My intense longing for you to stay. So hopeless yet so ardent.
Because just like the sea you were. Always changing yet so persistent.
What can life offer anyway
That I can't have with you in death?
What feels more like home anyway
Than it does besides your grave?
Image via pinterest
Losing a friend
Ask me where it hurts
Everywhere I'll say
Ask me if I miss you
Everyday I'll say
he called me neurotic
but what i think he really meant
was that the roots of my anxiety
are growing deep within my head
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sometimes my thoughts run far
away, escape all rhyme and reason
the seeds of logic overthrown
by the fruits of anxious seasons
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i just take my time to breathe
and think up a solution
i take a minute and i trawl
through the depths of this pollution
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poison planted in my mind
by words and dirty looks i catch
in a net of pure self hate
in which fearful thoughts hatch
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he called me neurotic
and sure, ill take it on the nose
my garden of fear and self hate
truly needed that last rose.
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(photo via)
The grave that I call my home
Where love doesn't exist.
The monster that I call my father
For whom peace doesn't exist.
The demon that I call my mother
For whom compassion doesn't exist.
The nightmare that I call my world
For which I dont exist.
The despair that I call myself
For whom joy doesnt exist.
The curse that I call my life
Where living doesn't exist.