it was just after another
cut me off because a lover
had something more than me to offer
when after all i neednt have botherered
more like inexperienced men
fuck you and you anti establishment aftercare
just cause some girl fucked you over when you were 16 doesn’t mean you can push past my hard limits
the ache
your smile
my anger
your arguments
to the fucking brim it
was never fucking worth it
he told me about his poetry classes
(pressed against the rim of his glasses)
meaning metaphors and strong word play
he pressed speculation into inks
said rhyming words were just bad links
as i sat there holding an american football shaped pillow
pressed against the bottom half of my abdomen
just to hide the lumps and bumps of my exterior
(just breathing out - it eats away my interior)
all i could think about was the oil in the greens and butter on the bread
how i’m alone and sad and want to be dead
but this secondary transition in poetry he said
is the ability to write about something other than fucking depression
people write when they’re sad
people write when they’re overcome
but how am i supposed to write
when my feet are fluttering faster than a bulb that blinks
and what the fuck does that even mean ?
he spoke to me like a human
thoughts and feelings and what each word meant
i cant unless a sadness thinks
relying on hardcore kinks
self destruction disguised as an exciting and consenting impulse
andulkaphoto
blakekathryn
pixelskylines
baratheonpilled
tangentwithtanner
titsay
gummygunk
romaincrisis
izzy806
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