UntitledIt is fine when you are the one to leave. You have your indignation for company, and the sense of being right and misunderstood. But when you are left, when you are abandoned at one am in a busy city full of people who you do not know, you have no shield, no comfort.Untitled by carpefuckingdiem
The lie peels back like a bandage, exposing the sickly truth beneath: you are not loved. Yes there are those people, the ones you have taken home and promised the world, but they do not know the hurricane that spins and kills beneath the surface of your skin. You are nothing. She has lied to you. She has used you in the same way that you used all of the others. You were a distraction, a bright colour to paint across the monotony of her own loneliness, an excessive loneliness that mirrors your own.
A weary beggar asks you to spare a little change - does he not see that you have none? No change, not for three long years. It is always the same old story. She calls, she sa
spoke the dawndaylight looms hungry over midnight avenue. i am writing poems about the stars and how i will never forget you. your face like a fist in my memory clutches at the strings of my heart, peels humble flesh and bone from inexhaustable soul. you are written onto my skin, indelible, unforgettable.spoke the dawn by carpefuckingdiem
my life is in limbo: transient, the nature of home ephemeral as the fleeting movement of strangers eyes across my face. i walk these same wreckless roads in each city i visit with shoes beaten down from pounding pavements all over the world. i live the way you always said i would: like it's all impermanent.
tonight i wonder how you are living. my notes are strewn across the dry grass, light from the open fire dancing across old pages. you live within these thin sheets as a character in the fable of my existence, the moral of which is that love never dies. i remember the poetry of your words, always spoken with brute force suggesting great passio
trace decaythere’s a trunk full of newspaper clippingstrace decay by carpefuckingdiem
that explain far better than I ever could
the hollow madness that became of our lives
all the homes and the headlines we made
outside the courthouse in the rain
with gaps in my memory like missing teeth
and prison letters cluttering the mailbox
before the silence came and unspoke the truth
words caught like barbed wire in my throat
and i could not give you any more, i am
running in the opposite direction
with my trunk full of bad journalism
and memories drowning behind me
like passengers on a ship riddled with holes
twenty-onei keep having psychosomatic symptomstwenty-one by brokenfragilethings
of drowning in the tar-colored liquid in your lungs
and i know that is selfish because i still have air
when you do not, and if i could i would
breathe into your lungs like an inhaler; but all
i can do is write these words as if that fucking helps at all.
Bigger WordsHe used to say "if you publish a book," or "when you publish a book."Bigger Words by SilverInkblot
He doesn't say that anymore.
Now he says "you're going to publish a book," and I'd wonder when the decision stopped being mine if I hadn't already known what I was getting myself into with him in the first place.