Tag: poetry
Existed
I had never felt something like this before. Pain had never been beautiful or poetic before, until she decided to live without me. Whenever I crossed a place where we had been I couldn’t help but stop for a minute. I stop for a minute and feel a bitter and silent pain within me. It doesn’t feel like heartbreak, it is so much more than that. It is knowing that the most beautiful woman on earth had left me, and she would never come back. It was pain knowing that I would never see her again, her beautiful existence existed without me. She had it all figured out, she was the most beautiful woman on earth.
People-people
And he was like no other, he had watermelon cheeks from the paradise written upon his skin. The worlds flowed from his lips into the room as if he was born with Gods vocabulary. He looked at me, he observed me as if I was a formula he needed to remember. When I looked back he didn’t flinch, the world was upon his feet and he’d never be bothered. He tucked his hair behind his ear with his porcelain hands. Hands who held pencils for hours to draw lines with the perfection of ice crystals. With the policy of polite placement he filled all the grooves with the black pencil he held, he held it in his porcelain hands. They were easy to break, he was easy to break, never socialize with the gracious, they will put the magenta in your eyes and their art in your heart.
#74
I hope that in a year from now I will write about ‘how I finally understand’, but honestly I don’t think I ever fucking will understand why you left.
Sunshine in May
People forgot how the colour yellow looked. The clouds we’re drawn into the sky with permanent marker. The rain fell down as if gravity was the only force on earth. The winter expired into a feast of cold and grey. We had no choice. We didn’t have anything to say, until the first day of sunshine in May.
#73
Somewhere ahead of us, is a day, a certain pinpoint, where I won’t think of you, negative of positive. I can not know when that will be, because at the moment my name is a series of past lovers who are written all over my identity.
#72
My writings have made people cry and have scared people to the bone.
That is why I’m more likely to end with – anonymous, and when people ask me what’s in that black moleskine book I say ‘nothing’ and hope they forget about it.
The overthinking 