I use you to fill a need
But the vessel is broken
It's constantly empty.
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@thislonelypoet
I use you to fill a need
But the vessel is broken
It's constantly empty.
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.
Nothing hurts more than mourning someone
Who isn't dead.
Why do i constantly look in the mirror
Just to hate what I see.
As if you'd ever change.
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. ♡
Oh sweet rain
Falling so rhapsodically
Get off me.
Sometimes all a girl needs
Is a wine, movie, and something
Cuddly.
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.
I suppose what I want most
Is to know what the hell i need.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“Love didn’t hurt you. Someone who doesn’t know how to love you hurt you. Don’t confuse the two.”
— Unknown