poetry ;; typical_writers

weeds

I've washed my hands a million times, but the marks never fade. They stay there for the memories of how we once were, how we once felt.

It's the reassurance of how we used to be different people. It's the funny metaphors in our minds.

Passion from dark outlined people... I love how temporary this love feels. But a siloutee can never morph into a person with feelings.

Your love always felt real, and I hate that you ruined it. I hate how you told me you loved me. I hate how you cared. I hate how you listened. I hated it. I still hate it. But above all else, I hate how you lied. I hate how you told me I was the only one. I hate how you loved someone else. I hated it. I still hate it.

I hate how you ignored me. I was the weed in your beautiful garden... And though I was not a flower, you pretended I was. Your blind, and you don't understand me one bit.

I'm not a flower, the way I think is not beautiful at all. I'm not special. So appreciate me for what I'm not, I'm not any different than all the other weeds, my thoughts are horrible, and I cannot escape the smokey mind that I live in.

And you should run away before I become addicting, because you've already become my drug.

It's never going to change, things will only shift, but my mind is something I cannot escape.