You might think i write about you....
COEXIST
When we talk you make me cut my thoughts down
and only use words with 2 syllables
and every time we kiss, I can feel you
forcing my tongue back into my mouth
Last week when we hugged, you didn’t want to
squeeze me, when we discussed you didn’t want to argue with me, when we made
love, you didn’t love me - how could you, when you never tried to get to know
me.
You carry me around with you like I’d wear a
handbag.
You like to look at me, but can’t be bothered to listen.
My IQ is higher than my weight and that scares you.
Numbers in general confuse you, you can’t even remember how many girlfriends you had.
I hate your guts, like you hate everything that’s on my inside.
I can’t stand your shallowness,I’m tired of sitting through your football matches and
you get sick trying to grasp my abstract questions, are bored listening to my silly theories.
You like to look at me, but can’t be bothered to listen.
My IQ is higher than my weight and that scares you.
Numbers in general confuse you, you can’t even remember how many girlfriends you had.
I hate your guts, like you hate everything that’s on my inside.
I can’t stand your shallowness,I’m tired of sitting through your football matches and
you get sick trying to grasp my abstract questions, are bored listening to my silly theories.
We have no intersection.
But remember, we’re not straight* lines.
We don’t need to have a crossing point to connect.
On the other hand, we’re not parallels either, we’ll never face the same direction.
Then how do we coexist?
But remember, we’re not straight* lines.
We don’t need to have a crossing point to connect.
On the other hand, we’re not parallels either, we’ll never face the same direction.
Then how do we coexist?
I JUST WRITE ABOUT MYSELF
You might think I write about
you.
Because that’s what we poets do.
You cut us open and we bleed right onto the paper.
That’s why writing seems so effortless - all we do is document and rephrase and present it as an original piece of art.
Plot twist - You’ll never find other people in one of my pieces,
even if you think you recognize yourself,
even if I quote you and post our whole conversation on the internet.
I never write about you.
I use parts of you i find in myself
and stick them on other things, that bother me,
to create the monster within I want to kill, so I could sleep at night.
If I write about your beautiful sense of humor, your lovely heart,
your amazing strength and all your other flaws,
I actually talk about how easy it is to break me. How easy I bent.
You could hug me and stab the knife in my back
and I’d thank you, for touching me.
You could stand in front of me, with a gun in your hand
and I’d think I deserve it, because I’m an easy target.
You could kill me by pulling the trigger
and I’ll still blame me, because I didn’t run fast enough.
I just write about myself,
even if I use your name to describe my weakness.
Because that’s what we poets do.
You cut us open and we bleed right onto the paper.
That’s why writing seems so effortless - all we do is document and rephrase and present it as an original piece of art.
Plot twist - You’ll never find other people in one of my pieces,
even if you think you recognize yourself,
even if I quote you and post our whole conversation on the internet.
I never write about you.
I use parts of you i find in myself
and stick them on other things, that bother me,
to create the monster within I want to kill, so I could sleep at night.
If I write about your beautiful sense of humor, your lovely heart,
your amazing strength and all your other flaws,
I actually talk about how easy it is to break me. How easy I bent.
You could hug me and stab the knife in my back
and I’d thank you, for touching me.
You could stand in front of me, with a gun in your hand
and I’d think I deserve it, because I’m an easy target.
You could kill me by pulling the trigger
and I’ll still blame me, because I didn’t run fast enough.
I just write about myself,
even if I use your name to describe my weakness.
EVERYTHING I WRITE ABOUT IS A LIE
every kiss I adore, has never
been on my lips, every guy I write about, doesn’t exist,
every break up I describe, never happened, every love story I tell, is fiction.
every friend I mention is a ghost and dusty memories,
every me is just high hopes and alcohol,
every feeling I lay down for you to relate is just the same
ever so old emotional crap you’ll find in
every book in the library.
every line is full of clichés and ripped off a damn love song.
every scene you might picture has already been in a movie,
every character I describe didn’t die nor has ever been alive.
everything I write about, is a lie.
every time I’ll twist reality,turn it,distort it, until it bleeds into my
everywhere, my heart and I can cry out
every word of pain, I never felt.
every person in my poems is just another part of me.
every ex-boyfriend who I never truely loved? That was myself I didn’t like.
every lover, that I couldn’t let go? Again, just me, fighting for my own life.
every friend, who abandoned me? I’m the only one who ever hurt me.
everything I write about is a lie.
Never loved anyone enough, to let them break my heart.
Never wrote anything sincere.
Never spoke the truth.
Never said I would now.
every break up I describe, never happened, every love story I tell, is fiction.
every friend I mention is a ghost and dusty memories,
every me is just high hopes and alcohol,
every feeling I lay down for you to relate is just the same
ever so old emotional crap you’ll find in
every book in the library.
every line is full of clichés and ripped off a damn love song.
every scene you might picture has already been in a movie,
every character I describe didn’t die nor has ever been alive.
everything I write about, is a lie.
every time I’ll twist reality,turn it,distort it, until it bleeds into my
everywhere, my heart and I can cry out
every word of pain, I never felt.
every person in my poems is just another part of me.
every ex-boyfriend who I never truely loved? That was myself I didn’t like.
every lover, that I couldn’t let go? Again, just me, fighting for my own life.
every friend, who abandoned me? I’m the only one who ever hurt me.
everything I write about is a lie.
Never loved anyone enough, to let them break my heart.
Never wrote anything sincere.
Never spoke the truth.
Never said I would now.
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