this lonely poet.

Rosie Moon. Published title coming soon.

[thislonelypoet]

I use you to fill a need

But the vessel is broken

It's constantly empty.

[thislonelypoet]

Perfectionism is like

Painting a stone wall

With a brush for detailing

In the middle of the suns rotation

Sweat swarming your body

Drowning you in light, heat -

You become wet

The headache starts

It pounds as your heart pulses

Weakly under the skin

Tight and burning

But you persevere relentlessly

Angry because the paint is drying too quickly

For you to paint precisely

So you paint over the same spot

Again and again

It dries and you paint

Again and again

It's now nightfall and you fall too.

You never finished the wall

And it's not near to perfect

You start again the next day

At high noon.

[thislonelypoet]

[thislonelypoet]

[thislonelypoet]

Nothing hurts more than mourning someone

Who isn't dead.

[thislonelypoet]

Why do i constantly look in the mirror

Just to hate what I see.

As if you'd ever change.

[thislonelypoet]

Last night I had to let my girl, my cat, my companion, Lola... go. Terminal illnesses in cats move fast and unfortunately I could not keep up with her. The grief is unbearable but I hope to create and post a poem in her memory soon.

To my Lola. ♡

[thislonelypoet]

Oh sweet rain

Falling so rhapsodically

Get off me.

[thislonelypoet]

[thislonelypoet]

Sometimes all a girl needs

Is a wine, movie, and something

Cuddly.

[thislonelypoet]

I can't help feeling so devastatingly alone

When im hanging out with 'new friends'

With crippling social anxiety

My brain hurts me and

Suggests I wasn't good enough

Suggests I made a fool of myself

Enough so that I force myself to accept that

I can't help feeling so devastatingly alone.

[thislonelypoet]

I suppose what I want most

Is to know what the hell i need.

[thislonelypoet]

Why does this timeline feel

Inadequate for my needs

Why can't I walk a cobblestone street

Into a building, with pillars neat

Be greeted with a hearth so warm

My coat is thus, forlorn

When a cup of black is most sweet

And bells rung upon the street

The horses clop amongst the rubble

Of the groups of girls that giggle and muddle

When books of new parchment smelt most fresh

Of pines and woods of forests kept

A cigarette smoke that lofts past

Amongst the grey skies of past

It must be Europe that I speak of

In an age when books were made of

Intelligent young folk, making their way in the world

When a future was promised

A meaning meant well

Now tis a boring age, of white walls

Squared and plain

With sidewalks smooth like polished stone

Not a chip, nor crack, nor crevice known

All but straight and perfect now

Nor buildings high and intricate in detail

Nor horses that pull a carriage in avail

Nay, a cigarette as rare as the time of day

Of a walk less brisk than made today

Not a coffee made with loves bitter sweet

Oh I dream of walking a cobblestone street.

[thislonelypoet]

it wasn't until I looked up

and watched the stars burst

that I knew then

you were the darkness,

not the thing so beneign

nor as bright or hopeful

as the many of the night.

[thislonelypoet]

nothing like the equivalent to

hot cocoa on a winters eve

that is the warmth of a lover

a bond so strong, it makes even God

quiver with anticipation.

[thislonelypoet]

The heart feels so full

When there is love, peace

And so empty when nothing but

Nothing at all, sits and feasts,

Though pumping with blood

A red burn'ed beast

This heart beats, relentlessly.

[perfectquote]

“Love didn’t hurt you. Someone who doesn’t know how to love you hurt you. Don’t confuse the two.”

— Unknown