Charles B. said it best

Please

I can’t write about love

I can’t write about High School

I can’t write about my son

I can’t write about my daughter

I can’t write about my lover

I can’t write about my heart breaker

I can’t write about my dad

I can’t write about my mother

I can’t write about government

I can’t write about the weather

I can’t write about Depression

 

well… I could but I’ve worn out being worn out.

 

I can’t write about losing a baby

I cna’t write about being shot

I can’t write about being rich

I can’t write about being poor

I can’t write about feeling absolute bliss

I can’t write about a dozen roses

I can’t write about smoking weed

I can’t write about blacking out drunk

I can’t write about things I haven’t done

I can’t disgrace the name of poetry by writing about fake events so I apologize for the times I thought it was love and got carried away with my words.

 

they weren’t real, none of it was.

 

I can’t write about marriage

I can’t write about divorce

I can’t write about things I don’t know.

I gotta keep it real, but what words should I use to keep it real?

I can’t answer that but I gotta keep writing.

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I guess I have you to thank.

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I guess I have you to thank for the way I pass out rejection like flyers.

For ruining perfect potential.

You know, before you I was a blank page, just ready to be claimed by someone who could show me love.

You came in and etched your name in such dark black ink and it kinda hurt but then again I never had experienced love.. and I still haven’t I guess.

I cherished that pen ink and I loved it so, I loved the way it

smiled

laughed

teased

and hurt

and I guess it was too many loud opinions but I realized the handwriting wasn’t what I anticipated. I backed off to see if the pen could write me a story and then

the pen disappeared.

One kiss before he was gone.

I acted like my paper was fine and after some time of forgetting about it, I wondered if he would ever write again.

I asked.

He told me that was all he wanted to write, he couldn’t start up again, not now.

I agreed and I left and apologized for intruding the way I always used to.

I stared long and hard at the writing until my eyes began to flow. They flowed onto that canvas and made the ink run. I watched as the black ink slowly infected my paper leaving it impossible to see any space for writing. I frantically tried to clean it up but I couldn’t stop my eyes from flowing. I sat and looked at this black paper where his name used to be and all I saw was a mess.

He left me a mess that I kept to myself. No one could see, I didn’t want to show how damaged it was.

When writers wanted to come and write for me I pushed them away.

Told them I can’t and couldn’t explain why. Frustrated, they would leave.

I began to sink into the ink and I couldn’t stop.

Thoughts of you pounded my head like I am 50 feet under with no air tank to breathe

you tore at me.

I felt my heart be torn into different directions cause

Maybe there’s a chance

and

Get over it honey

and I blame you for that year of sinking and I don’t care if you are a good guy now.

You made me sink further than I ever had.

You made me secluded.

You ruined my canvas.

And even now, every so often nostalgia comes into play and shows me how we could have been perfect and I have to remind myself of the sinking.

I sunk hard for you and I waited for you to save me.

and you never did.

What in..

What in pollination

What in standard deviation 
What in navigation


What in quotation

What in dehydration 


What in mistaken identification 


What in formation


What in anticipation


What in hand sanitation 


What in carbonation 


What in taxation without representation 


What in frustration


What in Condensation


What in pure imagination


What in wrongful assassintion 


What in salvation

What in hibernation 

What in linear equation


What in dundie nomination 

What in transfiguration 


What in boat law violation


What in oscar miscommunication


What in abomination


What in Emancipation Proclamation 


What in acceleration


What in narration


What in Bob Vance, Vance refrigeration

What in tarnizzle

loving the moon


she’s the moon and i love her so. 

the closest thing i ever got to a perfect friend.

every aspect of her was beautiful. 

the way her hair looked when she swayed to a song that hit her like an avalanche.

her perfectly different facial features that worked only for her and how they worked for her. 

her smile and her longing for her big dreams to become her reality.

i saw life punch her in the gut over and over again and i wish i could take at least one of the blows but all i can do is watch.

i saw her smile fade and her eyes found a new home and that was down cause the sun was blinding.

i remembered when she liked the way the sun looked. she told me it made her feel alive.

i see her look at herself like she’s never enough or maybe too much. i wish she didn’t.

i keep trying to tell her that she is the moon and how she’s out of this world but that doesn’t do anything. she wonders why she isn’t the stars.

she doesn’t realize that the moon is why i love her.