I've come to the conclusion I'm wasting
ink like I'm misusing my time.
I've got abused paper that lies on
my floor in pain, crying pieces of
confetti because I've torn it to bits.
Perhaps to get the perfect poem
I'll glue my pages back together.
I'll unscribble the honesty that
I'm afraid to see and maybe then...
No. Not then.
Ya see, I have to stop myself
from expecting you to understand-
you never will.
I just want to show you what it
looks like to be the abandoned
words I've left to walk a blue line-
"Honestly, do you know how much I ..."
"Can truth be perceived in your..."
"Am I there for your convenience or..."
"I love you..."
Crossed out, smeared, covered up
These lines are staying the night
in a trash can because they're afraid
to come home and face the truth.
Really, I blame myself for the
aggravated murder of my dying thoughts.
I didn't even give them a proper burial
because there is no use in respecting
emotions that never had the courage to live.
I think its pretty obvious that even these words
that are written without a curtain fail to
appear clearly. The problem is your reaction
such as, your distraught sigh and your
serious tone. I'm in love with them.
Just like I'm in love with...
No. I can't be.
There probably is no point in even
writing this because it will just end up
joining the slumber party it wasn't invited to.
The one where voices stay up late avoiding the talk