Poems Quotes

you embrace my face, and the touch is enough to set me crying - big, fat tears roll down the swell of my cheeks, and my mouth is very rapidly resembling something akin to a rubber band. snot runs into my open mouth, and immediately mortification blooms. i must look awful - eminently puce and forlon, as if i were a friendless child. yet still, you continued to look at me as if i had set the sun and pulled upon the moon.
And there must be a reason why no one ever says goodbye
"Promise me you won't do it again"
I can't promise that, and if I do it won't mean anything at all
because no matter how much I promise, or swear
this entire conversation won't mean anything at all
at four in the morning, when I'm feeling like sh..it and wanting to die.
I won't be able to talk to you, because you are sleeping, unperturbed,
whilst I fight the conflict in my mind. I know I will feel guilty, because I had promised,
even though it was nothing to me, it was to you. and
I know you will be disappointed, perhaps angry, and infinitely sad
and I know you will cry, almost as much as me
but in this moment, I'm being selfish,
I'm thinking of no one but myself, and in this moment,
right now, I need release

I trace the curve of your mouth, and I map out each and every individual crack and crevice - because winter has never been kind to you. Your mouth is thin, a small line upon your pretty face, and you hardly ever smile. I ask you why. "Because," you say, "I'm ugly when I smile". "No, you're not!" I snap almost instantly, and you laugh at my decisiveness. "How would you know? You've never seen me smile". You look so smug. "Because you can't ever be ugly, not to me. It's impossible." Your mouth twitches, and suddenly you smile and I want to cry because there's a definite curve to your mouth, no matter how small and unsure. It's sort of awkward, because your top lip has been eaten by your mouth whilst your bottom lip remains very much in existence; fat and prominent, it curves at the edges - cracks down the middle - and I watch, fascinated, as vermilion swells to the surface. I kiss the wound; smile against it. "See?" I taunt, "still as pretty as ever". You throw your head back, laughing, before smacking me upside the head - I somehow find it very hard to care.
the sun blinds my eyes, rips through the fibres with the force of an angry star. it burns into my brain, tears through my perception and scars my memories, drenching them in sunlight - making the past look golden and oh so desirable.

it also dulls my senses, forces the future to forever compete with days that once were and people long gone. i avoid sunny days, and i do not look up.
And I always seem to contradict myself. I want to die but I want to live so fast and so hard that my heart explodes into millions and millions of pieces, red Valentine confetti that never touches the ground. I want to stay at home all day and I want to travel to the most remote places of the earth. I want to never again have to speak to a stranger and I want to learn sixteen hundred languages so that I can converse with just about every single human being in creation. I want to be alone and forgotten but I want to make friends in all one hundred ninety-six countries on this earth; I want to talk to no one but my mother and I want to talk to people from Penza, Chuncheon, Soweto, Dhanmondi. I want to have a list of friends that expands the width and depth of the Altantic. I want to laugh in the face of everything that's frightening but I can't seem to laugh at anything at all.

I hardly ever write on paper - On the rare occasions that I do, the pages are promptly torn to pieces and flushed down the toilet. Because I always fear people finding little scraps, which in themselves hold fragments of my life. I prefer the infinite blank page of cyberspace, where strangers know everything family doesn't. Because strangers can't tattle to your mother, and they can't ever break you down with a disappointed gaze.
They had each other. And it was nice; they were happy; abstemious, healthy. The mattress still stank of sweat and pi.ss and neither of them had showered in months, but everything was fine. They had each other; they were happy. They had a home, a cheap flat in a bad neighbourhood, but it was theirs, and thus it was nice. Then the money ran out. They sat in the dark and used many blankets, because saving was important. For drugs and food; important things. They were happy, mostly - not always. Prescriptions became her.oin and coc.aine and then amphe.tamine. They kissed with blood dripping from their noses, unable to afford anything of quality. The method was quantity over quality, and soon he overdosed - being hospitalised for seven days was worth the rush, the flying, the calm. They slept on the street that night, away from angry landlords, in an alleyway aglow with street-light amber. It was awful; the adderall had been left at home - or what once was. Together they lay, subdued, as they shook through the night. It was bad; they were not happy.

Today I received a letter, a very special letter, from England - which is a very special place home to a very special person. Here are the contents;

The sky is dark today, but I bet in Paris it blinds - sending kaleidoscopes of colour against the Louvre, shining upon the river Seine; shining against your eyes. I remember, how they were the colour of the sky; not my sky, but yours - blue, cloudless, infinite in depth. I was so jealous of you, of your endless blue sky that never rained. And then I found out that you are susceptible to storms; massive, howling giants that rage inside your brain - this made you all the brighter. I have never met anyway who could have such bright eyes when the world around them is so bleak.

I hope one day my sky matches the colour of your eyes. Perhaps only Paris can ever hold such light?

With love, my friend - my days would not be bright without you.
And it was beautiful but terrifying; a work of art, like the gentle slope of Abel's ribs. Or the concave of a man accepting Death's embrace. It felt soft like Pysche's revival, or perhaps the folds of Dornröschen's dress. Thick with triumph, it held such similarity to that of Perseus, Medusa's severed head held high above his own. But most of all, it held a supreme discomfort, the kind that can only be felt by the unwilling participants of Imponderabilia, desperately trying to avoid the face of something born to be embraced.

People You Might Like
  • J a n n e t t e 🌸*
  • SecretlyBrokenAndSilentlyHoping
  • dreamer*
  • l0ner
  • justkiddiing
  • Steve
  • ChocoTaco
Newest Wittians
  • martyna12345
  • romanitobac
  • Corder
  • morgankay
  • kiaramarlez
  • mariasabitch
  • Rydellingtonluv1999