Shes sitting in your room,
shirtless and forlorn.
Her habits of forgetting names
have turned into habits of list-keeping,
obsessive and neurotic, theres pages strewn
across your floor.
Names on pages torn
from old bibles found in the nightstands of motels.
Your shirt is riddled with stains,
teardrops left to tear holes in shoulders.
Sitting idle on bedsides
your eyes watch her,
stalk her,
taste her
until she is nothing but vanilla in your almond-butter mouth.
Your tongue doles out lashes
as her fingers press tentatively on the vowels
that make up the excuses
she made up for herself.
You cant even remember her name.













Comments
There's files upon files on my computer of unfinished, and destined to remain unfinished, poems. And then sometimes I can just sit and write and finish one in one sitting. I'm odd like that, I guess. :3
I find it helps to sit and force myself to write every now and then. 9 times out of 10 the result is total garbage, but it gets the juices flowing.
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"Dreaming permits each and every one of us to be quietly and safely insane every night of our lives."
beautiful.
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I'm the goodest Angel ever! join me at ~Angels-vs-Demons
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No matter what...you can count on me...I'll always be here to catch you when you fall...
Love is not a victory march, it's a cold and broken hallelujah
Thank youuu!
--
"Dreaming permits each and every one of us to be quietly and safely insane every night of our lives."
Thank you.
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"Dreaming permits each and every one of us to be quietly and safely insane every night of our lives."
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