POEMS

why'd you wanna read my notes app poetry?

for the earth, and you

i bet the wind and the trees are tired of being woven into cheesy poetry
the grass and the green are tired of being called with the same words everytime someone passes by and says
look, the grass is green
and silence isn't new either, so if we say nothing, it'll be just like the old times
when the birds and the bees, the elephants, tree trunks, and the leaves
crunching below their footsteps with sounds a bit too calm
for the storm of the erectus that started populating the hearth
a few million years ago
i bet the earth is tired of being called the earth.
people get tired of reffering to people with names that are the same each time
i guess that is the reason nicknames exist
because i would be tired of saying nicholas everytime
and nick rolls off the tongue real nice
and while i sit and write these lines in my notes app
and as they roll off from my mind, too sublime
i think of that time when i wrote about people
the people whose breaths went uneven and whom i watch preen themselves
in front of silver coloured mirrors
the people—you
you.
and it all comes back to you, doesn't it?
i need a new muse because, honestly
i bet the cloth with your name on it has wrung dry from how hard i've wrung out everything
and twisted each word into a beautiful lie that i cling to, even to this day
and until ive found something that makes me forget completely
i'll just tap my thumbs across a screen and wish things had gone differently

i hate writing poems

The air has its hold on my neck
It's trying to kill me
My own body feels like a second skin
Foreign. Alien. Not. Mine.
And what hurts is that it never felt like my own
Never felt like home

I think someone chopped up that time
Ate it, and threw it up in a plastic bag
And chucked it out of the window
Because it's been too long since I've felt anything
I need that plastic bag back
Even if it's full of vomit
I'd drink it down, if it meant for one moment
My skin felt like mine, and I could feel the touch of your hand
Back in my hair, where it raked through
Like an old woman
Raking leaves in the backyard of some
Suburban picket fence home
But her husband beats her to death every night after sex
She hides the bruises
But what about the ones that have carved themselves into her skin?

I hate writing poems
I hate it because it reminds me of you
Of how low I went for the touch of a hand
And a body that belonged to someone else
But it felt like home
A home where that woman lives
The woman is me
Getting beaten up by the memories of you not being able to look at me

I hate writing poems
I hate it because I wrote a book
Dedicated it to a German girl
Because she had asked me to keep writing
So I kept writing
She was just as crazy as me
Wild, funny, pretty
We talked all the time
We were friends though
Really good friends, at that
She was a Virgo
Green eyes and everything
Spoke 3 languages
Ich liebe croissant type shit
Then one day, she vanished
Funnily enough, the book I wrote was titled The Blue Ghost
And she ghosted me

Then nothing as inspiring came into being
And no one read my petty musings
So I got fixated on friends
Who aren't really, but I like calling them that
Makes me feel less lonely

And I find myself
Writing about a boy who couldn't ever understand me
And another who couldn't understand me either
And I realize I need to stop lending pieces of my fragile heart to these Robespierres
For they have their guillotines
And the pieces of my heart have heads that fit perfectly in them
As if the guillotines were made by a carpenter
Whose hands cursed the men who died by his guillotine
And the pieces, oh the pieces
They fall, head-sliced, at your feet

Call me crude, but when I say I despise you I mean it
You were someone who didn't promise love, but you made me feel it
You were, no, you are a coward
And I fucking hate cowards
Cowards who can't voice what they're feeling
Cowards who only look at me after taking their glasses off
Cowards who say "now you'll never forget me" with a cheeky grin after giving me head
Plain fucking cowards

I hate writing poems, because I catch myself thinking of you
When I shouldn't be thinking of you at all
I wrote my heart out to you, you gave me three words as closure
So fuck you
That's it.

from the head of a narcissist

A year goes by and the pain subsides into acid that I pour over each memory I have of you
I talk to myself, I think of someone else
But each thought somehow brings me back to you
I tell myself I won't write about you anymore
And I have found new muses
But our moments are fleeting
And the shade of how I'm feeling
Is a deep gray painted all over my face
And no one wants to do anything with a gray-faced kid
So I stay in my lane, embrace the numbing silence
Numb my head with the smoke of a cigarette
Nicotine takes over my head like ivy
And I forget the time we spent fighting

I stare at my phone screen
Thinking of a word stronger than hate
Since that's what I feel for you
It's deep, and putrid, this acidic fluid
That laces my tongue every time I speak of you
Your name comes out like a curse
A disgrace laced with a backstory of tragedy
And I can still perfectly retell each story of how many dumb things you've said to me
I won't stop until your cowardice is breaking news
I won't stop even if my karmic balance is in the dues
We can be even, even though we're not the same
And I'll make you regret ever moaning my name

move on? - 8 oct, 2024

These days, I wake up cold
With nothing to look forward to on weekends
The coffee burns hot on my stove
And I curse the day love was invented

You showed me those parts of you
The ones unclear below your surface
I felt like I knew how your act worked
From backstage, behind the curtains

Now these tears, they fall
Like clusters of stars that shoot
But since I was so small to you
They fail to break into you

The ghosts turn to dust
Once the lights have turned on
But if someone chooses to stay in the darkness
How can they move on?

question - 8 oct 2024

The silver oak stares back at me
When sat on the very bench
Where I lost a friend

I could just get up and leave
But the oak is pointing fingers at me
"You ruined this."
But he won't help me fix it
So it's useless

The decorative bush smirks at me
"At least I have a purpose."
It remarks at me
But it won't help me find my own
So it's useless

The withered grass yawns, it's tired
"It's been too late to bloom, has been fired."
And as the ground shakes, it's humbling
As my tears get old and start to retire
As my eyes get numb and start to perspire

Drop after drop, I lose myself
Were my tears not enough of an answer
To your question?

The earth laughs at me
I bite my tongue to keep myself from screaming
I can't speak anymore
Since I can't see
Through my waterlogged spectacles that keep taunting me
"Remember when you placed me on his bedside table?"
I shut my eyes as it births new fears
Fears I can't cradle
And then it goes, yet another ladle
Of the bitter water from the ocean
And into my eyes

You didn't care, but you didn't have to show it
My fire was burning but you didn't have to stoke it
At last, I answered your question?
I was still there, crying from your deprivation.