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hands on empty bottlesso you're staring me in the face with those big wide eyes and i'm telling you don't go, and you just let everything we've been through slip through fucked up fingers and drown yourself a little more in alcohol, all the weed, cigarette tasting lips and i'm the one who has to be strong.almost 4 years of this shit,and i'm so tired of saying good bye.-well damn,i've written a lot of fucked up verses about stoner boys, and scarred girls, men with no responsibility, women who test words on herbs, and children who forgot how to dream and each one of those has had an ending,a good bye,and i'm just like "fuck"here we go again.i'd share a little story this time,but all i've got left is anger and tears and i'm so fucking tired of this shit that i don't even know what i'm going to do when i'm done complaining,when i'm done writing letters and i'm strong enough to dump all these razors in the river.and i'm just like "fuck", it's been over a year. and i just can't find the right motivati
fuck love poemstomorrow will be our 3 months,and i can't believe i don't have much to say about that.3 months isn't long. not compared to an eleven month relationship with a boy with Puerto Rican skin and electric blue eyes that managed to glow on a rainy day.not compared to the eighteen month push and pull, love and hate, scream, cry, laugh, die, breathe relationship with a best friend with magic lies and poetic words.not compared to the four months you spent drugging yourself day in and day out, and fucking for company with a stoner boy with aquamarine eyes.no, 3 months isn't much, and I'm just sitting here with my pretty pen and my hurtful words, breaking every last bit of happiness that 3 months has given me. but these words aren't for you, love. they're for me.i don't know what i'm trying to prove, what i'm trying to say. and i don't know why i've been dwelling on the past so much lately. and i just can't figure out what makes you so special, what makes you better, why i fucking love you.
when you're dealing with skeletonsshe looks like her mother(except for her eyes, given to her by a man with too many intenetions his hands couldn't carry)and she's considered the good child, left behind a selfish sister with perfect blonde hair and green eyes like the grass, a brother with eyes like the cigarettes he smokes and dark red hair that resembles the hell of a life he's endured, and another brother who's just following in the footsteps of the role models.(but we're all fucked up one way or another.)-first things first,her name means pure, but she's not quite sure how tainted you have to be before her definition becomes unjust.never been a beauty queen, but always had a unique look that boys with blue eyes like to follow. shimmering caramel brown hair and always sky blue eyes until family revolutions became her life circle.by that time she started changing her name, changing her face, her hair, and warm blue eyes became rainy gray eyes that described how ugly her insides really were.(broken ribcage th
In Memory of a Dead Boydear boy,with tattooed skin,and words like the ocean,this one's meant for you.i've said it a thousand times, and a couple times more i'll repeat it.i haven't quite figured out what's wrong with you and i don't think you have either. because for some reason, i keep coming back and inhaling your cigarette skin i hate, and getting lost in snake like brown eyes.once before, i thought darkness was my favorite type of story.but the chocolate in your eyes turned to a black abyss, a hole i fell into and clawed my way up only to be kicked back in.i've got bruises up my ribs with your name on them.i'll keep my original argument though. about not knowing who you are, and what you want, and why the fuck i can't just say no.get it? just say no.you put the light back in my eyes for a little while but i set a fire when you left and danced in the moonlight with a hazy stare. you grew from gold to a faded gray in a matter of weeks. losing that poets touch,that beat.beat.beat of a broken hea
Abortion'Open her up like a book, read it, and weep.'Please stop these sappy love songs.We're all looking for company in this place full of tattered girls in frilly dresses and boys who can't tie their left shoelaces. It's like we're all out to fuck the loneliness out of our hearts and breathe acid melodies in our lungs.At least when I catch fire I'll be warm enough to burn the memories away.-He probably breathed lovesick tones down her throat and held her in a way she couldn't resist. He probably played the same moves that every guy before him had thrust down her lungs. But when it came to me, all the love left his eyes and all the anger exploded in my tiny unborn heart.(Mother says I was born on my due date, but something else is behind her eyes.)I've had a million chances for love, but it seems like the anger burned for a few years too long and set my heart on fire.She's just waiting for the water to settle down the flames, but she's been thirsty for 16 years.
Here's to the past."I know you're angry a lot, but when you're with him it's like you're okay for a little while."Well, here we go again.Writing about boys with blue eyes, and heart shaped pupils.Blonde hair,a smile to die for,overconfidence leaking outside his pores.Yes, here we go again.I'd love to write something that's worth what he's worth but I'm honestly not sure we've gotten that far into the story yet. All I know is that eventually the story has to be over and done and the end is still a bit away from here. Here is where I'll start though.He has blue eyes, but they're not electric, or aquamarine. They don't shine like stars, and they don't drag me in where I'm high off their essence. There's honestly nothing special about them. He doesn't wear a mask, he doesn't lie and curse lullabies in my direction. And so far, I haven't been smothered in sexual fantasies.And just like me,he wears his heart on his sleeve.-I tell myself to be quiet so the secret of what perfection is won't slip out
Enough of thisDear boy,today I had a withdrawal.I don't know if it's the loss of riches or the realization of patterned heart beats, but today I've suffered slight pain, and deep trenches.-I barely noticed the razor touch my flesh,barely acknowledged a throbbing, if there was any at all. I think when I'm done this poem, as guilty as it makes me feel, I'll grab the slate of blood again and swipe it across this vein filled skin.Blue veins I've only gently touched. they pop out against the supernatural pale coat I wear atop my bones. Sharpening my knuckles, wristbones and ribs poking out, begging to snap up and build a new body.Maybe this one will be a princess, with hips that carry a little weight, and eyes that don't match a rainstorm. A princess he can be proud of, perky and emotional. Brave enough.One that isn't afraid to love,and is afraid of sharp metal objects against virgin skin.-I don't remember when this became a self-help letter, and changed to a love poem.-Dear boy.