#blankpoems

[pintazul]

BlankPoems - Bedroom Music

[slowsunrise]

The ultimate test of love is space and time. I remember being in tenth grade English class, learning about literature. My teacher said "What makes something a classic?" Everyone bowed their heads. Nobody knew but the romantics. I raised my hand. "A piece of literature is classic if it withstands the ultimate test of time" So am I Mary Shelley, honey? Are you Percy? "And what were thou, and earth, and stars, and sea, If to the human mind’s imaginings Silence and solitude were vacancy?" I know you do not love me, but you say you care. So will you still care? Will your stomach be in knots until I return? I am giving myself one week, one week away from you and already I have slipped. I haven't reached out, but I have played the piano today. I have ripped your words out of my throat and off my walls. You are everywhere I look even when my eyes are closed.

Day 1 Without You, L.T

[hollowlyist]

something important

[bydirigible]

[brighteyewrite]

she was a trite girl, but not by design. she lacked the unsavory nature that was obvious in the people who had never had the spark, the savvy that divides the world into categories of intensity and passion. she was warn down by the filing that everybody else insisted on in her life, shaped to fit into the key hole that lead to the life they wished her to have. and it made her itch, deep down, it was pretty obvious to anybody who paid attention. she squirmed around between the little walls around her, and she felt quite claustrophobic from the expectation for her to be a certain thing. to never be errant, or wishful. thoughtless and tentative. and I knew that one day she would implode and the casualties around her would be unable to be fixed. she would smash herself, slowly; then instantaneously. and it will be a sea of post traumatic grief for anybody affected by the wreckage. helpless, one day; she will just cease to exist.

[kascaidd]

don't mistake falling in love for falling into psychotic depression

[slowsunrise]

It's funny how things happen sometimes. One year you're in bed, crippled with the anxiety that you are not doing what you're meant to be doing. Thinking you have failed, attempting to end your life. The next year, you are on top. Your writing has taken off. You no longer want to starve yourself or drown yourself. You are happy more often than not. Things happen, things change. And everything gets better. If I've learned anything in the past few months it is that everything that is meant to be, will be. And wherever I go, I will go with a smile. Even if it's not on my face, I'll always carry it in my back pocket.

[starbathing]

If my hands could tell a story, they'd say how your spine always looked beautiful in the morning, when the sun's rays created shadows that danced along your back and flirted with your neck like they'd never meet again. They'd say how your lips always curved upwards as if they were saying hello. If my hands could tell a fairytale, there'd be no happy ending, there'd be no end at all. I wish my lips could finally part to say the right things, because all I want to do is hear your name roll of my tongue, in the same sentence as "you're mine". I want them to tell the story of your lips, red, and taunting and always mysterious. I always got a toothache when you weren't in the room. I think I need a root canal. If my knees could speak they'd tell you how lovely it was to bend to curl to your legs. If my knees could tell a story, they'd describe the cold, hard bitter kiss of death they shared with the pavement so many times when I found your bags at the door. If my knees could beg, they'd ask for forgiveness. For being too bony, too weak, for not being able to support your dreams. (I'd give up anything now for that little apartment in New York and nothing but two typewriters) If my fingers had a chance, they'd trace the familiar lines of your collarbones and over your shoulders, because by now they've committed them to memory. If my fingers had a chance, they'd hold yours again. They say to stay away from broken people but I saw you as a puzzle just waiting for someone to put you back together again. If my eyes could tell a story they would whisper softly of your flowing hair and pixie-like body. They would ask you to stay. They would jump out of my body to give you a glimpse of how I see you. They would show you how utterly unprecedented you are. If I believed in heaven I would tell you that you're a miracle. That you are something I wished upon for years as a child. You are a star. You are a supernova. You are a black hole, sucking me in and twisting me about until I am nothing but battered limbs and my broken heart. You are God with the Devil's kiss. If my lips could move they'd say "stay". You were mine.

- L.T