Dear You,
Last time I wrote
a set of these,
I thought it would be
the last.
But it wasn't.
And I'm still writing.
We aren't together.
Yet I may love you.
I've told you
so many different
things lately,
truth is,
I don't even know
what the hell
I want
or feel.
But our love,
God, our love
was precious..
until it wasn't.
Until we got caught,
because early love
must be bad love.
We couldn't be trusted.
Until I was figured out,
because negative stress
isn't good, quite obviously.
It wasn't noticed before.
Until I had my privacy stripped,
because it's always better
for everyone else to know.
Clearly, it made things worse.
Until the thought was pushed
into my damn head,
and I can't help that
I let it take over.
And now we're here.
I, that girl, laying in bed,
writing another set of these
fucking poems.
And you, a guy,
trying to get over
a stupid girl
who isn't worth shit.
YOU ARE READING
Where Are My Words?
PoetryMy new poems because my last ones sucked. I went to a slam and was introduced to so many great writers, thought I should start again.
