work in progress!

BROSKI

What good are dreams when you wake up anyways? 
          
          I've been having conversations with the you's I've pulled from our favorite songs. I dream of nightmares still to come, of roots that build nests in trees to sit beside the sun. In these words the distant becomes closer, we can touch things that are no longer here. One lifetime isn't enough for all the people I want to be, darling, can I just remain someone you loved? 
          
          

you said you loved
          
          winter, so I laughed
          
          away the sun & made
          
          it the only season &
          
          though today home is
          
          love inside myself that
          
          I can’t reach, your fingers
          
          still curl around midnight,
          
          but I’ll be your difference -
          
          you make me want to
          
          memorize the detail to
          
          every minute of every day,
          
          but I don’t want to sleep
          
          if you won’t meet me in my
          
          dreams.

this smile is nothing
          
          but a hand on the clock,
          
          a memo dressed as a
          
          reflection that can’t
          
          breathe on the counter
          
          of winter, leave me lost,
          
          but don’t leave me waiting,
          
          I ran out of light when you
          
          walked away & though
          
          every picture is framed
          
          in blood,
          
          send me love.

ich will kinder von dir 

The lines that once intertwined
          my hand with yours 
          have never been so strained. 
          Tightened, twisted, the tension
          is bound to snap. 
          We are not destined 
          to be drowned in obligation 
          but if the line is cut 
          To whom
          To what 
          would i tie
          its point of breakage? 
          

i’m slowly starting to realize that my sadness means nothing to you and i’m sick of keeping up with your constant mood swings. maybe all those years have led to nothing after all. 

Wattpad can literally fight me. SQUARE TF UP. so? basically what happened is that wattpad deleted sht that i wanted to publish. Sht that I was actually fcking proud of wow. And now it’s mf gone and i’m left asking myself what i wrote in those chapters. IM DEVASTATED OKAY WTF IS THIS. FEELS LIKE SOMEONE MURDERED MY FIRST BORN 

2. i understand the simple movement of leaves shuffling in the wind wishing to return to the same tree that it used to grow from. so when i say that i love you, what i’m really trying to say is no matter how much we change from here on out, i promise i’ll always think twice before making you cry again. i know that humans are such complex, but simple and beautifully broken things— depression has numbed my thoughts for far too long and heartache doesn’t seem to know when to not remind me that i am not allowed to love myself. so you’ve been doing alot of the dirty work. i love someone who thinks that the night doesn’t sleep well too, and maybe that’s why i stay up. i love strays like how the moon loves streetlights— always too pretty, just tiny little suns that goes out when the real thing rises. i’m all out of play and my sadness is all dried up. you make happiness feel like a poem that has to be written. so when i say that i’m happy— what i’m really trying to say is thank you. another word or poem just won’t do. a simple thank you.
          
          —from me to you

1. i love someone who believes that the wind doesn’t bother the paint because it’s allowed to dry. Your habits are selective in nature. so when the first thing you do when you miss me is call, i am reminded of how much i really am alone when you aren’t around. but they say distance makes the heart grow fonder, as if three thousand or more miles could close the gap that held hands try their best to hide— above our wrists, my love for you, it flies free. when i say that i feel lonely, it doesn’t mean that i don’t have anyone to talk to. it doesn’t mean that i don’t have anyone to be around. quite possibly, maybe it’s the writer in me. no one speaks to my soul, so when they do, i love a little too much and sometimes that’s enough to hurt even the smallest little details that i’ve tried my best to not shout out loud. the thing i hate most about poetry is that no matter how hard i try to not sound hurt, i end up sounding hurt anyway. maybe that’s the emotional disconnection i’ve felt my whole entire youth coming into play...