How Am I To Write Of Things So Beautiful By Themselves
how am I to write of things so beautiful by themselves
there are yellows lights outside and blue fluorescent lights
there was a man on the bus who was so obviously an addict
he's found a teenager's phone by his seat and told his every move to a woman he didn't know for
"he's had too many problems already to steal anything really"
there are yellow nights of laughter and blue strangers who weep in churches
there is a part time job of mine at a flower shop
and I can't explain how throwing out stem cuttings makes me the happiest I've been all week
the world's poetry writes itself and I feel useless in my craftsmanship
"poetry in breathing" - zero (me)
More Posts from Zeropoems
some time ago already, a month maybe
a cold night and a blue apartment
just the kitchen lit up and just me inside
the buzz of the microwave
and the holler of the wind
and the shake of my hand
and the poorly executed confession
"it's not back, not really. it's just
my brain is a scumbag and it just
wants me to go down, and i just
can't tell it to shut up every time,
you know"
and you didn't before
but you tried your best in the moment
you told me you will be there always
and I appreciated it, like no other
I swear I did
and you told me
"please call me if this ever gets worse"
no idea why, it came back like a curse
you still don't know, noone does, actually
I'll tell you the truth only when you ask for it
because you don't need this in your life
on another cold night, in a lit up apartment
I'm telling you goodnight, far too early
• "tonight I'm going to sleep hungry" - zero [me]
apparently I have 100 likes on this account, which is not exactly a lot considering how many things I posted but I'm still happy about it [:
around the dinner table
comes a story not so old
that they think does not
resonate anymore
about crooked floorboards
and cold water for months
and saving all your money
in order to save yourself
and when it ends they
hand you some cash since
these times are past us
but you know you're wise
and so put money in a jar
hidden from everyone
you have to save up
in order to save yourself
the times have never and
will never change
• savings jar - zero (me)
there seems to be a universal understanding
of the fact that no good life was a good story
good lifes make good examples and I make
poetry and bonfire stories that can't go unheard
and I am glad for all the harm that was done
to me and only to me, for maybe it was better
to make my life worse and my poems relatable
noone reads poetry when they're alright, and
more so noone ever writes poetry when happy
maybe the stars aligned in this way for every poet
maybe god made us with a bigger purpose, than
any mortal happiness, made us for eternal things
written in ink and lived through in our own blood
- zero (me)
[ I finished writing my poetry book and I just know I will hate all of them in a year or two. I am never proud of my poetry. my mind is a burn book ]
there's no gratitude in me
I am forever ungrateful
I am the rot that's spoiling this home
yet I am the only one who tries to run away
- zero (me)
I choose to silence myself most days
I choose the end row of the train
I choose the seat on the back by the window
I choose to sit on the noisiest wheel
I choose to suffocate
I chose however to tell you today
I chose to be an idiot in love and be loud
I hope I'll make my mother proud
"choices" - zero (me)