Its merely impossible. Its heartbreaking. Its heart shattering. It will kill you. You will feel every organ in your body sink to one place. You will laugh to prevent tears from coming down. If you were/are “in love” with someone and for some reason it cant work out between you guys, and you guys are friends, i strongly believe you guys were merely infatuated with the idea of being in love. I dont know if im the only one but just knowing or should i say, that thought that passes through your head sometimes to remind you that you guys cant be is just more heartbreaking until the next reminder. Its as if your energy is sucked out of you, an incredible heart ache just builds up. Damn. Sometimes i wish i wouldnt have met you but then that also brings up the question would i rather never have known what it was to love you or love you and learn to love unconditionally but lose you in the end. Shit sucks, especially when you know it will never ever work out for you two. Especially knowing that no one gives a damn because theyre waiting for their turn with you while youre picking up the little pieces to whatever remains of you. It may sound crazy, this whole in love deal and it is. To be in love is basically admiring the little details and quirks of someone unconditionally. No ifs and or buts. You cant like their video game addiction but like them buying you you food every time you guys go out. it doesnt work that way. You love everything there is to love about them. Whats so special about it, is that you dont question anything you do for them, you just do it. Not everyone has someone that loves them unconditionally, that no matter how many times you fuck up, you let me down, you disappoint me, you hurt me, ill be there. Because i love you. Most people just dont get it so they judge so ill leave it at that. Today was probably the worst day of my damn life but as they say ‘you never see it coming but you get to see it go’ and thats all it matters. But wanna know what else matters? that they know that even through all the arguments, defeats, accusations, laughter, tears, adventures, escapades, craziness, fights………… you still love them. You still love every bit of what they are and what they hide and what they can be and thats all that really matters. That they know you love them.
The thing with us young adults when trying someone new is very simple indeed. You use the same words you saw your homie use on that one girl and in that head of yours, you somehow think that you telling me the same thing he used on his now EX can work on me hence me giving you that O. Come on now, lets be real. Cheap talk only works on average people and im far from average baby, im a sold stock and there was only one of me. Girls swear they can play stupid cus theyre best friend gets guys that way but that one bestie has now multiple STDs and now youre wondering ‘why does she get all the pretty boys?’ well she also gets all the nasty diseases. You gotta choose the road less traveled. I hate the whole ‘let me get to know you, tell me something about yourself’ …………… fuck that. Stick around and youll learn what i do and how i does it and what makes me mad and what you can do to make me smile. Dont go too fast it might get boring. You know like that one snack you stay craving and you finally get a hold of and you buy tons of the same crap just to figure out you dont want it anymore ……… thats how i feel. Dont ask questions you know, just go along with it. I need someone different.
Similarly, we can treat this like a metaphor.
Cus we’ve met before,
our connection is much more than “like” can ever ignore.
We got ourselves some imagery
Me imagining you in me and into me.
You and I can make some sweet-ass poetry.
Ten fingers. Two eyes. If I divided my sight with my hands, I’d get 5 for the senses I’ve compensated for my limited visions. That’s a peek..for my boo. One nose for your one body because to know your scent exclusively is even better than any 2 hands dividing my 2 thighs, which makes one..thing we’re trying to find. Intimacy. Reciprocal mouths, partial lips, and two tongues is a fraction of the infinite language we can convey without actually having to speak. My two arms in addition to your chest embraces three parts, mind - body - soul, with 2 hearts as factors indivisible by two people that somehow seem to make one.
Well, the mirror is only going to reflect your physical appearance and not yourself as a person, which contradicts this notion of “beauty” because beauty is skin deep. I know I’m over analyzing the notion because this mirror exercise is just to remind yourself to ‘reflect’ and build your confidence, but it would make more sense if we all just looked in the mirror and just told ourselves that we’re sexy. Unless “sexy” is supposed to be a sort of attitude, I’m pretty sure if we licked or bit our lips enough times, we would start thinking that this numbing and trivial tease might actually turn us on and thereafter others, and maybe that might cause us to feel anything but less than beautiful. However, let’s remind ourselves to not document this activity with pictures and post them shamelessly on the internet (because we should already gain self satisfaction of this confidence without the world knowing). The world cannot handle all of this sexiness.
Serial killers kill for a living. They kill for a living. It’s funny because when we say “Damn, I’d kill for a…” we don’t nearly mean we’d actually kill for something we want. And it’s funny because when we put into that perspective that serial killers kill for a living, it’s like they’re saying “Damn, I’d kill for a..living”. Being literal to the utmost level, “I’d kill for a..life”.
To kill for a life.
Life, as in a social outlet. People who have lives vs those who don’t. As if serial killers have nothing to do, but to take the lives of others. You’d think they want a life other than that. To kill for a life.
Life, as in the manifestation of actually breathing. Like some sort of exchange of taking one’s life away to prolong their own life and desires. To kill for a life. (An eye for an eye. A l(i)fe for a l(i)fe)
Life, as in a time-frame. A lifetime. Serial is a form of series, and series usually continue and this case, killing would be unbounded by a life-time. To kill for a life(time).
We all have things we’d die for, but what are things that we’d kill for? Ask a killa-killer that.
Let’s get even then. But when I was even the least bit odd, it’s like you were telling me to stop being short with you, but when I was standing up tall, you wanted to look down on me still? Like height was just a “hi” short from a “hel(low)”, hella low. You gimme five, but I give you one hundred. Then you say you’ve given me 110%, well that’s bull unless that extra ten on top of mine, was like the two hands & ten fingers I used to calm you down. “Calmmm downnn” was the motion of my hands. Ten. My two hands on your two shoulders made your (four)ceps (ten)se with restrain.
Let’s get even then. If equality was like equal signs then we nearly converged every time failing to be parallel with one another. It’s like what we started with was nothing like how we ended. And it’s like all your given values was se(x) and I was just giving you logistics like numbers. I was feeling (numb)er, but maybe we just over-thought the variables without actually looking at the signs. Plus..well fuck the ‘plus’ it’s like we didn’t even add up or amount to anything.
Let’s get even then. Maybe we can do some shit to spite each other. How about you go out with some easy ass girls that don’t know anything remotely close to logic, and I’ll end up going out with guys completely opposite of you so my ass starts feelin nostalgic…Fuck it. I don’t want to get even with you. I don’t even want to have to act odd around you. Let’s stop being immature. Let’s just do us..but separately.
One is the l(one)liest number? Nah. One is just being h(one)st.
I think being in love is a mental thing. And since the mind is so powerful, it makes us act in a crazy way we wouldnt normally act and or judge if someone else was to partake in the actions we are capable of doing at the moment. In other words, it really all comes down to numbing your mind. But our mind is too complex to go through a numbing process. Personally, i wish i could numb my mind from feeling anything but happiness but thats another thing. We swear up and down that someone needs to make us happy and that if we dont have someone, we couldnt be happy, ever. And thats when the whole “im in love with you” deal comes in. Youre really infatuated with the fact someone puts up with your stupidity, your craziness, your bullshit………. everything you wouldnt be able to stand in someone else. And yes there are people we meet that we just automatically click with and yes i do believe theres something like a soulmate for everyone but what if youre not really in love? what if theres really no love but an idea instilled in us from babies that we need to be with someone and thats love and that if they stay with us and tell us nice things, they love us…. Maybe im thinking too much into it. Maybe this is my way of forgetting that im in love and i cant get out of it.
“Someone asked me why i havent given up on you just yet and i tell them the same thing time and time again. They only know the bad youve caused but not what youve done for me. You have been there when no one else was telling me i can make it and i made it. We fight every 4 days but that 5th day, im ready to jump off a bridge. Youre like the kryptonite to my heartless being. I just cant get enough of you and maybe if people saw us and how you kissed me, maybe if people saw the long hugs, maybe if people saw the way we fall asleep together slow then all too fast, theyll know we’re meant to be. I dont know how else to put it. We’re probably soul mates or some shit and we dont know but we’re hoping. Every love song i hear, i think of you and how much you’d appreciate the words. Every Hershey’s i see, i imagine you pointing to it and i having to buy it. That reminds me, youve done that 5 times. Enough is enough, im just kidding baby. I think in order to really appreciate something, you have to be on the verge of losing it and i was on the verge of losing you one too many times and i guess ive taken those warnings seriously. I know youre not the type to hate me or seek revenge but you have the ability to forget what hurts you and i swear on everything i dont want to hurt you. I swear my biggest fear is ……………. losing you”
It’s pretty ridiculous. I swore myself to secrecy. To solidarity. I confined myself with my own confessions. Lost in my own directions, dumbfounded to what’s restricted. I am self-con-f-f-f-licted. I give myself heart complications and palpations. A patient to the cardiatrics, yet I’m not patient to hard-love dynamics . I’m hard to love, or is it that it’s hard for me to love. What the fuck do I know about love? I’m NOT talking about the context of love within the convex blatancy of “I love you”. I’m talking about the underlying love within the complex consistency of “I care for you”. I don’t ever want to be told that I’m careless with love. But love, you can care less, cus day by day I care less, I love less. I’m loveless when truly, I want to feel the loveliest. Don’t humor me with the lovey-dovey, your less than threes, and your “xoxo’s”. Ex-O, ex-O’s? Simply put, I’m vexed, yo…
We give ourselves too much credit for thinking we invest our time and care for others when we could have easily avoided the costs if we realized the person we cared about didn’t really need it because they didn’t ask for it or weren’t responsible for our doing. Yeah yeah, some people say that shit is unrequited love or whatever, but the only credit that’s legitimate to give ourselves is that we voluntarily wanted to do what we did for the other. We shouldn’t blame the person for wasting our time. WE wasted our time. And that’s not to say we’re asking for sympathy or guilt because of it. That’s just the damn fact of the matter and a realization we need to accept. This isn’t an opportunity to feed our egos and say we’re self-less either because we know damn well we’re all selfish with love/care/affection. We can say that we give and give and give ourselves to another person, but if we were truly selfless, we wouldn’t give one single fuck if the person reciprocated or not.
Sorry this shit sounds like I’m preaching. I think..I’m trying to talk some sense into myself.
This is not your typical love poem. Firstly, do not expect a rhyme scheme. Do not expect a poem trying to convince me of the red pigments in roses, as this flower has taken shape and blossomed to an 18 year old princess. And violets are not blue. Violets are fucking violet. Secondly, do not expect common metamorphic comparisons about your eyes. How your eyes shine like the moon in June and what not. What you will be getting is something you won’t expect, like how your eyes are like door keys. Because when I turn to you, I’m home. Do not expect me to sing to you ballads asking how deep is your love. But do expect me to dig deep, deep like a submarine voyage into your mental surface twenty thousand leagues below sea level. Do not expect me say basic love lines, like how I am crazy about you because on the contrary, I find sanity in you. Do not expect perfectly places love lines in the middle of poems that call out interests in and aww’s out from mouths. Like how I planned our wedding day the minute you smirked at me across the semi-crowded subway. Or how I have highs off your hi’s and I’d try to buy all your bye’s so we’d never have another goodbye. Heck, I’d call that a good purchase. Or a good buy. Speaking of which, don’t expect over saturated rhyme structures and comparisons. Like how wedding rings are created by the Gods as circles and never-ending to symbolize us. Because pardon my French, ‘cause that statement… is corny as fuck. What you can expect is comparisons between you and I as a combination lock. But you’re not the key or the combination, because that would be predictable. Not even the locksmith. You’d be the meteor flying at the precise angle, journeying perfectly through placed windows and holes through walls to perfectly split the lock halves to reveal us as a whole. You see, predictable love poems should be written for predictable women. Like, instead of something simple like, your hair is red like the ripest apple, you would read something like how your hair is read like bible scriptures from the book of psalms, with each strand teaching different lessons revealing something new. Do not expect an… inclination of voices and different sound patterns followed with pointing gestures about how I am in love with you! Because for once, the words should speak louder than the actions. What you should expect is a simple gesture… a simple ‘I love you’ or ‘your hair looks nice’ once in a while. Keep love simple and beautiful. Lastly, do not expect big climatic ending involving jumping over the cliff with love, or an ironic ending about how wrote this about how I haven’t met you yet, or even a major cramp of syllabic rhymes about how our love is a dove sent up from above that’ll soar above floors with wings that never get bored or never get sore. What you can expect is not an amazing, focal-point ending, no “I. Love. You.”, but a sudden abrupt stop left wondering, what just happened. Thank you.
because to walk with both feet at the same time would get us nowhere. We would only progress in our strides if we challenged our thighs to make leaps instead of steps. That’s why we usually take those intermediate steps which are less difficult but appropriate to begin with, but we challenge ourselves when we take leaps later on in our lives. Leaps of faith, but let’s not jump into conclusions let alone simply ‘run with it’ without any destination (although that works for a few)
If we were to hop on one leg, then I don’t know what the fuck we’re doing. No one wants to hop back-and-forth tryna riddle themselves with balance, not to mention how inefficient that would be to get places.
Cus we go places to be somewhere. There. Movin. Keepin it forever movin.
You put a spell on me.
Now without any sound, can you spell it out for me?
Sound it out for me.
Through lip-singing, and lips synching.
I felt my teeth sinking
into skin and we’re barely touching the surface.
Cus at the face of a sir, and I being the Miss,
skin deep was past emotion, I was the pessimist.
Psst, be my therapist, be my fix.
I misspelled my intentions. Mispronounced my worth.
No words summed up my being, my being never have been read.
You see typos; I see squiggly lines under words in red.
To bring attention to mistakes.
Or to bring affection.
Can you bring any proof that you have read me?
Have you found any truth in what was proofread?
I took a needle to my vein,
thinking my stream of thought be thread.
And it “led”, very much like a pencil’s
Instilled in my soul, a pen.
I began to edit.
And then I ended it.
I told her she just wasn’t my “type”. Her being Courier, and me all Arial..I couldn’t be cordial. She was acting brand New. I told her she wasn’t the “one” for me. Her being a fraction of what I looked for, and I being one within myself, it seemed like basic (ratio)nale that she wasn’t being the passionate gal. We could be pals, without the pen..I told her she wasn’t my type, riiiiiiight (er)…and she insisted on writing/riding it out. Wrong! I could have sworn that my signature (curse)ive self swore a little too much. When I called her a bitch, I was tempted to say “P.S. I’m sorry”. Then I caught myself; forget this B.S. I ain’t sorry. But what were sighs turned into signs, until I signed my name on the bottom. It’s like I signed my life away. My soul. With a pen, my pen(soul), but unlike a pencil, it wasn’t erasable. I told her she wasn’t my type. I made myself believe she was a typo, Type O..and me with my blood boiled..maybe I was that Type B(itch).