born in the crack
alley
of my mind
sloping, melting, flowing
like molten sugar
down a slope of paradise
yet you appeared
eyes wide
developing colour
shining flaws with
beautiful contrast
and something i couldn’t place
a squirrel
or television
who really knows
the world at best
but one thing is certain
this poem means nothing
I miss this group of friends,
this group of friends is like a matching wardrobe
brought to a thriftstore,
being prepared for permanent seperation,
never to be the same, never to be together again,
its not sad to see us split apart,
its just sad to not know where or when or if we will meet again,
wondering what he or she will do with their time, when you no longer occupy a section of it,
when you can no longer stake your claim in it,
and you can no longer keep that person content,
spend time thinking of someone else,
because thinking of them makes you somewhat ill,
by the time you realize I feel this way I won’t,
and its a cycle so when I do again you don’t,
but the best friendships are like records,
they can last forever if you treat them with care,
and wherever you wanna go they can take you there,
so when part of your life is in a plastic bag on your way to the thrift store
remember its part of life, no piece of clothing will last forever
the most it can hope is too grown old and stay in one piece
the less it gets worn the more chance it has of surviving longer
but at the same time the less its worn the less it will learn and grow stronger
we can’t all be kept forever and kept together
It’s funny how I can feel so many things
When I’m only thinking about one
Mixed results and unfinished thoughts
Things I’ve said that can’t be undone
Have I wasted my time…
My precious life… not so precious anymore
I am hopeless and alive
Lying, cold on the floor
I wish I could deserve it
Instead, you watch me fall
I feel worthless with your love
Just you, above it all
The silence I endure
long depressing days
The things I could never say
In so many different ways
I live this life scared
These moments, half awake
Never knowing where you are
Never knowing what time will take
On me, it seems to collapse
Your different strands of affection
I’m stuck and can’t get out
My beautiful… complex… affliction
I’ve turned you into poetry.
You write the pages of my existence.
How is it things have only the worst ways of coming up yet seem to be all the best things to your mind… I wish only to know such things in the best of ways and not be able to tell them from good or bad… yet at times i feel like there is only some things which have to remain Bad to stay good in your mind… which is the only reason i have only the best of things to leave… yet many see them as perfectly bad…
so what kind of conversationalist delight are you searching? …one of philosophical endeavors? …or one’s explaination of who in the world could/can this be? …the ups and downs; wrongs or rights? ….or just what adventures one can have in the day?
gjaytin 